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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 


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SILIC^ 

ATTIRE 


BY 


WILLIAM BLACK 


ntered at the Post Omce, N. Y., as second-cla-ss matter. 

Copyright, 1883, by Johk W. Lovbll Co. 7 ^ 


NEW VORK. 


K Jol\N • W • L oV£ JU L . CoA\PAt4Y^ 

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i UT WTYTItf/^ fj\0 tiAliimA kjh AUfatft«k«i 9nu KaaI/caIIa* a# MJMiiftjJ. 









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s library. 


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c^'jyj^i:^C>&Ty:Ei. 




/ 


'1, Hyperion, by H. W. Longfellow.. .20 
2. Outre-Mer, by H. W. Longfello\y> . .20 
^ 8;,; The Happy Boy, .by BjOraflon^^i . .10 
; 4;.; Arn^, by B|orilBo'i[3. . .f ...^....' 4 ^. -..10 
f6| Fr^kepitei9Vpr.j|Sie-^^rod|rn Eyo- 

/ !, ^efUeus^^by'^MTs. ^ell«y....»2...10' 
Q.,: T'fie ^ei^MoSicar^, by^’^. > 

Fenf^bre Cooper . ..... V . . . 20 

7. Ciytje. 'by Joseph Hattfen..;..., ..20 

8. The Moonstone, by Collins, P’t I. .10 

9. The Moonstone, by Collins, P'tll.lO 

10. Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens. 20 

11. The Coming Race, by Lytton 10 

12. Leila, by Lord Lytton 10 

13. The Three Spaniards, by Walker.. 20 

14. The Tricks of the Greeks Unveiled; 

or^ the Art of Winning at every 
Game, by Robert Houdin 20 

15. L’Abbe Constantin, by Hal6vy. 

16. Freckles, by R. F. Redcliff 20 

17. The Dark Colleen, by Harriett Jay .20 
1.8, They Were Married 1 by Walter Be- 

aant and James Rice .10 

19. Seekers after God, by Canon Farrar. 20 

20. The Spanish Nun, by Thos. De 

Qaincey 10 

21. The Green Mountain Boys, by 

Judge D. P. Thompson 20 

22. . Fleurette, by Eugene Scribe 20 

23. Second Thoughts, by Rhoda 

Broughton ... 20 

24. The New Magdalen, by Wilkie' 

Collins 20 

25. Divorce, by Margaret Lee 20 

26. Life of Washington, by Henley.. 20 

27. Social Etiquette, by Mrs. W. A. 

Saville I5 

28. Single Heart and Double Face, by 

Charles Reade 10. 

29. Irene, by Carl Detlef,. . ...'..'!20 

80. VioeVersa; or, a Lesson to Fathers, 

byF. Anstey.. 20 

81. Ernest Maltravers, by Lord Lytton. 20 

82. The Haunted House and Calderon 

the Courtier, by Lord Lytton... 10 

S3. John Halifax, by Miss MuLock 20 

84. 800 Leagues on the Amazon, being 
■* -• Part I of the Giant Raft, by 

Jules Verne 10 

36. The Crjptogram, being Part 11 of 
the Giant Raft, by Jules Verne.. 10 
36, Life of Marion, by Horry andWeems . 20 
87. Paul and Virginia • io 

38. Tale of Two Cities, by Dickens. . . ^20 

39. The Hermits,, by Kingsley 20 «' 

40. An Adventure in Thule, and Mar- 

riage of Moira Fergus, by Wm. 
Black .,10 

41. A Marriagein High Life, by Octave 

Feuillet 20' 

42. Robin, by Mrs. Parr 20 

4<k T^vo. eiLA.'lkjweivhy^iiomasHard^^ 

44. Rasselas,. by Samuel Johnson.. . ... 10 


45. Alide, of, the Mysteries, being PaTt- ' = 

II of Ernest Maltravers 20 

> 46.itDulite of K^ndos, by A. MattUey . . .20 ' 

47. Baron Munchausen. ...v,10 

y .€8. A Princess Sf Thule*, by Wmi :^ck .20 
/ 49. Thei^ecret-Jlespat^i, bv Qjraht 20 

50. Early Days pf Chrisfciani%" tiy Can- 

. r ori'Parmf, D,D;;-part«I :vvntl0 

Early Days of Christianity, b}’’ Can-' - 

on Farrar, D.D., Part II 20 

51. Vicar of Wakefield, by Oliver Gold- 

smith 10 

52. Progress and PoYer]^, by Henry 

' George.... '..,....20 

53. The Spy, by J.'Fenimore Cooper.^ .20 

54. East Ly«hne,’'^by Mrs, Henry Wood,20 

55. A Strange- Story, by Lord Lvtton. .20^ 

56. Adam Bdde, by Geo. Eliot, Part I. .15 ^ 
Adam Bede, by Geo. Eliot, Part II. .15 

57. The Golden Shaft, by Gibbon. 20 

58. Portia, or, By Passions Rocked, by 

The Duchess 20 

59. Last Days of Pompeii, by Lytton . 20 
'60. The Two Duchesses, being these- I 

quel to the Duke of Kandos, by ! 

A. Mathey 20 ' 

01. Tom Bfdwn’s School Days at Rug- 

by 20‘ 

62. TheWooing O’t, by Mrs. Alexander, 

Part I........ 15 J 

TheWooing 0% by Mrs. Alexander, i 
Part II ..... .15 i 

03. The Vendetta, Tales of Love and ' 

Passion, by Honord de Balzac.. 20 

04. Hypatia, by Rev. Kingsley, Part I. .15 ’ . 
Hypatia, by Kingsley, Part II. ...15 

65. Selma, by Mrs. J. Gregory Smith. .15 

66. Margaret and her Bridesmaids. . . 20 

07. Horse Shoe Robinson, Part 1 15 

Horse Shoe Robinson, Part II 15 

08. Gulliver’s Travels, by Dean Swift. .20 

09. Amos Barton, by George Eliot,.,. 10 

70. The Berber, by W. E. Mayo 20- 

71. Silas Marner, by George Eliot 10' . 

‘ 72. The Queen of the County 20 ' 

73. Life of Cromwell, by Paxton Hood.. 15 

74. Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontd...2U, 

75. Child’s History of England, by 

Charles Dickens 20 i 

76. Molly Bawn. by The Duchess ’20. i 

77. Pillone, by William Bergsbe 15 j 

78. Phyllis, by the-Duchess. 20‘ : 

79. Romola, by George Eliot, Part I...15 j 
Romola, by George Eliot, Part II. .15 j 

80. Science in Short Chapters 20 ' 

81. Zanoni, by Lord Lytton . ! . 20 

82. A Daughter of Hcth, by W. Black. 20 

83. Tbd;.Right and Wfbng Usesof the ' 

Bible, by Rev. R; Heber Newton. 20 ' 

84. NightandMoming, by Lord Lytton ' I 

Part I .15 I 

Hight and Morning, by Lord Lytton 

Part II........ 15 



Silk Attire. 


BY y 

WILLIAM BI ACK. 

\ « ) 

? Author of Shandon Bells*' '■* Madcap Violet** Strange Adventures 
\ of a Phceton** etc. 







NEW YORK : 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

14 AND 16 Vesey Street. 



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CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER 

I. OVER, AND SAFE 

II. THE LOOK BACK 

III. THE MARCHIONESS.... 

IV. THE ACTRESS 

V. ST. MARY-KIRBY ' 

VI. CHESTNUT BANK 

VII. BALNACLUITH PLACE 

VIII. JULIET 

IX. THE COUNT’S BROTHER 

X. MISS BRUNEL AT HOME 

XI. IN THE PARK 

XII. GOOD-BYE 

XIII. “ MIT DEINEN SCHONEN AUGEN ” 

XIV. THE OUTCAST 

XV. SCHON-ROHTRAUT 

XVI. SCHONSTEIN 

XVII. THE COUNT DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF 

XVIII. ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE 

XIX. FLIGHT 

XX. HOMEWARD 

XXL IN ENGLAND 

XXII. ROSALIND 

XXIII. HOME AGAIN 

XXIV. A LAST WORD 

XXV. EVIL TIDINGS 

XXVI. THE count’s CHANCE 

XXVII. DOUBTFUL 

XXVIII. MOTHER CHRISTMAS’S STORY 

XXIX. LEFT ALONE 

XXX. THE COUNT HESITATES 

XXXI. THE DECISION 

XXXII. CONFESSION 

XXXIII. THE BAIT IS TAKEN 

XXXIV. THE NEW GOVERNESS 

XXXV. ANOTHER BLUNDER 

XXXVI. AN OLD ADMIRER 

XXXVII. POSSESSION 

XXXVIII. ORMOND PLACE 

XXXIX. “THECOULIN” 


PAGIt 

I 

7 

lO 

i6 

25 

35 

40 

46 

55 

65 

73 

77 

84 

89 

98 

108 

117 

128 

138 

149 

159 

164 
169 
181 
187 
198 
200 
21 1 
218 
228 
231 

235 

241 

246 

249 

257 

264 

271 

281 



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** And ye shall walk in silk attire. 
And siller hae to spare, 

Gin ye’ll consent to be his bride. 
Nor think o’ Donald mair.” 


Oh, wha wad buy a silken gown 
Wi’ a puir broken heart ? 

Or what’s to me a siller crown, 
Gin frae my love I part ? ” 



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■ ' f . ■ 



IN SILK ATTIRE. 


CHAPTER I. 

OVER, AND SAFE. 

“ I AM gathering myself together for a great leap, Jack.” 

“ Don’t look so sad about it, then. Take it as you would 
one of your Berkshire fences, Harry — with a firm seat and a 
cool hand.” 

“ If I only knew what was on the other side. Jack ; that 
bothers me.” 

“ By-the-way, did you hear of the dinner at old Thornhill’s 
on Tuesday } I declare everybody was drunk but the dogs ; 
and they were turned out at night to find their way home by 
themselves. The squire got very, very bad — port and brandy 
alternately — tumbled twice off his horse before he got out of 
the gate ; and then, half an hour after, when the rest of us 
rode home, we found him sitting in the middle of the road, in 
the dark, trying to ward off the dogs that had gathered 
round him and were for licking his face, while he hiccoughed 
to them ‘ G — go away, my good people — g — go away ; I’ve 
really nothing for you ; ’ppn my soul. I’ve forgot my p— 
purse.’ But what’s the matter, Harry ? You haven’t heard 
a word of my story ; and you’re looking as glum as a par- 
son.” 

“ Jack, I’m going to marry.” 

“ Don’t be a fool.” 

“ I am, though. It’s all over with me. Jack. I told you 
I was gathering myself together for a great leap.” 

“ Who is it, Harry ? ” 

“Annie Napier.” 

There was an interval of dead silence. Mr. John Palk 
was too prudent a man to hazard a hasty witticism, knowing 
as he did the somewhat fiery temperament of Harry Ormond. 
Marquis of Knottingley. 

“ Do you mean that, Harry ? ” 

T 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


“ I do.” 

“ You’re in luck, then, lad. But what a host of rivals you’ll 
have blaspheming you! Why, all London is at Miss Na- 
pier’s feet. Lord Sotheby and I went to see her last night ; 
the people in the pit were half crazy about her. And when 
we went round to Millington House for some supper, Sotheby 
swore he’d give his soul to the devil for a hundred years to 
get an introduction to Annie — I beg your pardon, to Miss 
Napier.’-’ 

“ Fellows like Sotheby are rather free in offering their 
soul to the devil,” said Lord Knottingley, with a sneer, “ per- 
haps because it is the thing of least value they have about 
them ; or because they know the devil will have it for noth- 
ing by-and-by.” 

“ If you marry Miss Napier, Harry, you’ll be killed in a 
month. I tell you, man, London won’t stand it. Why, they 
say that the Duke of Nor — ” 

Knottingley started to his feet — his face scarlet, his eyes 
hot and angry. 

“ By God, I will drive a sword through the man who 
breathes that lie in my hearing ! ” 

“ Don’t scowl at me, Harry. I don’t believe it.” 

“ Do I care a straw who believes it ? But we needn’t 
waste angry words. Jack. I have known Annie Napier for 
years ; and our family has been rather celebrated for its jeal- 
ousy. If I, an Ormond, marry that girl, people may con- 
clude that there will be no longer a market for their scan- 
dalous wares. And mind you. Jack — don’t you talk of it to 
any living soul ; for I haven’t even asked her yet ; but she, 
or nobody, will be my wife.” 

John Palk went home to order supper for a little party of 
card-players who were to meet at his house that night ; and 
Harry Ormond had promised to call in during the evening 
— that is. the card-playing evening, which began when the 
men got home from the theatre. 

Knottingley was himself at the theatre that evening. From 
his box he sent round the following note to the lady who, at 
that time, held London captive with the fascination of her 
genius and her personal loveliness : 

“ Dearest Annie, — I shall await your coming home. I 
have something particular to say to my little sister. H.” 

He was alone in the box ; and he sat there, alternately 
entranced by the sweet tones of the voice he loved, and en- 
raged by the thought that all this houseful of people were 


OVER, AND SAFE. 


3 


sharing a satisfaction which by right belonged to him alone. 
When they applauded — as they did often and vehemently, 
for Miss Napier was the idol of the time — he scowled at them 
as though they were insulting the woman whom he hoped to 
make his wife. He resanted their rude staring as an indig- 
nity visited upon himself ; and when, at the end of the act, 
they turned and talked to each other about the great actress, 
his family passion drew dark meanings from their smiles and 
whispered conversations, and his heart burned within him. 
A night at the theatre was not a pleasure to Harry Ormond. 
He left so maddened by love and jealousy that he became a 
joke to his companions — behind his back, be it understood, 
for he had a quick temper and a sure eye with which the 
wits did not care to trifle. He was not a man to be pro- 
voked or thwarted lightly ; and in this period of contrariety, 
disquietude, and gusty passion, which falls, in some measure 
or other, to the lot of most young men, a discreet avoidance 
of irritating topics was the course which wisdom dictated to 
Lord Knottingley’s friends. Not that he was a sullen boor 
or bravo, eager to tread on any man’s corns, and kill him for 
swearing. He was naturally light-hearted, fickle, generous ; 
impulsive in every mood of affection or dislike ; and at this 
time, when these uncomfortable love-measles were strong 
upon him, he as often quarreled with himself as with his 
neighbors. He was sensitive and proud ; he was naturally 
jealous ; his sweetheart, worse luck, was an actress ; and it 
was a time, as some of us can remember, when scandal was 
cultivated as an art. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, 
that Harry Ormond suffered all the tortures, while enjoying 
few of the amenities, of love. 

That night he was sitting in Miss Napier’s house, alone 
and moody. He had an uneasy feeling that the strength of 
his passion was forcing him to a step from which his calmer 
reason might otherwise have caused him to shrink. He had 
not sufficient self-criticism to know that his impulsiveness 
under these circumstances, might hereafter beget all the mut- 
ual miseries of inconstancy ; and yet there were vague fore- 
bodings in his mind. He crossed the room, which was very 
prettily furnished and brilliantly lighted, and, leaning his 
arms on the mantel-piece, proceeded to study a small and 
daintily executed miniature which hung against the wall. 
Was he trying to trace in these calm and beautiful features 
his own destiny .? or was he wondering how his passion might 
alter the future of her whom he loved so much or was he 


4 


IN SILK A TTJRE. 


bitterly thinking that this portrait, like the original, was but 
a thing at which all men might gaze as well as he ? 

At that moment the door was opened, and there entered 
the actress herself, flushed with the evening’s triumph, and 
smiling a happy welcome to her friend. The first glimpse of 
her young and happy face settled the matter — there was no 
more doubt, no more regret, possible. And as it was not in 
the nature of the man to prepare his utterances, or use any 
discretion in choosing them, he at once went forward, took 
her hands in his, and, looking into her face with a sad ear- 
nestness, uttered his complaint and prayer. 

“Annie, I cannot bear your going upon the stage any 
longer. It is a monstrous thing — a degradation — I cannot 
bear it. Listen to me, Annie, for your own dear sake ; and 
tell me you will never go back to the theatre any more. 
You are my little sister, are you not.? and you will do what 
is best for yourself and me, my dearest ? How can I bear to 
hear the women talk of you ? how can I bear to see the men 
stare at you ? — and such men and such women, Annie ! 
You do not know what they say and think of actresses — but 
not of you, Annie ! I did not mean that — and so I beseech 
you, darling, to do what I ask you ; will you not ? ” 

Her eyes fell. 

“ And what would you have me do afterward 7 ” she asked, 
in a low voice. 

“ Be my wife, Annie ; there, I have told you ! Look in my 
g face, my dearest. You know I have loved you always ; trust 
^ me now ! ” 

“ Trust you ! ” she said, looking up with sweet wet eyes ; 
“ you know I trust you, Harry. Whom should I trust but 
you?” 

“ And you say — ” 

“ I say I will do anything for you, Harry, except that — 
anything except that,” she said, with a white, downcast face 
and trembling lips. “ You have been too good to me, Har- 
ry ; you have given me too much of your love and your kind- 
ness, for me to let you do such a thing. It is for your sake 
only I refuse. You remember when you said you would al- 
ways be a brother to me ; and I was thankful within my 
heart to hear you say that ; and after having been my dear 
brother and my friend for all this time, do you think I would 
make such a poor return for all your love as to let you mariy^ 
— an actress ? I will leave the stage, if it will please you ; 
I will lie down in my grave, if it will please you, and be happy 


OVER, AND SAFE. 5 

enough if I knew you wished it. I will do anything for you, 
Harry : but not that — not that! ” 

Wherewith he caught her in his arms, and kissed her — 
passionately, despairingly. 

“ My angel, my dearest, are you mad, to talk in that way ? 
Do you not see that the great favor would fall upon me only 'i 
Is there a woman in all England to be compared with you, 
my queen, my darling ? What matters your being an actress 
to me ? It is you, not the actress whom I beg for a wife ; 
and if you would see in what way I should ask you for so 
great a blessing, here at your feet I kneel — you an empress, 
and I your slave.” 

And so he knelt down before her, and took her hand and looked 
up into her eyes. That may have been the fashion in which 
lovers spoke in those days, or it may be that the strong pas- 
sion of the young man thrilled him into using stage language. 
But there could be no doubt about the absolute sincerity of the 
words ; and the girl, with a sort of sad, wistful pleasure in 
her face, heard his urgent prayer. 

“ See, Annie, am I low enough ? For God’s sake, do not 
mock me by saying you cannot be my wife because yon are 
an actress I You are to me the noblest and tenderest of 
women, and there is nothing I hope for but your love. What 
do you say, Annie ? Will you not speak a word to me ? ” 

She stooped down and gently kissed away the tears from 
his cheeks. 

“ I am ashamed of your goodness, dear,” she said, in her 
low, intense voice, “ and I wish you had not asked me. But 
oh ! Harry, Harr}% how can I hide that I love you with my 
whole heart ? ” 

She placed her hand on his soft brown hair — that hand 
which half London would have died to have kissed — and 
looked for a moment into his love-stricken eyes. In that 
brief moment the compact was sealed between them, and 
they were thenceforth husband and wife. She uttered a few 
words — rather indistinctly, to be sure — of farewell ; and then 
she lightly kissed his forehead and left the room. 

He rose, bewildered, pale, and full of an indescribable 
happiness ; and then he went down-stairs, and out into the 
open air. There was a light in her bedroom as he turned 
and looked up ; and he said, 

“ I leave my heart in her dear keeping, for good or ill.” 

Shortly afterward he made his appearance in Mr. John 
Falk’s rooms ; and by that time there was nothing on his face 
but a happy, audacious trust in the future, an expression 


6 


JN SILK A TTIRE. 


which immediately struck one of his friends who was seated 
at one of the small tables. 

“ Knottingley, come here,” said this gentleman. I see you 
bring good luck in your face. Back me ! ” 

“ I will. A hundred guineas on Lord Wriothesly’s next 
hand ! ” 

“Done with you, Harry,” said Mr. John Palk, to whom 
a hundred guineas was an acceptable sum, now that he had 
managed, by aid of ace, king, and queen (with occasional help 
from a racing favorite) to scatter one of the finest estates 
possessed by any private gentleman in England. 

As it happened, too, Lord Wriothesly and his partner won ; 
and Mr. Palk made a little grimace. At a sign from Ormond, 
he followed the young marquis into a corner, where their 
conversation could not be overheard. 

“ You’ll have to take paper, Harry,” said Palk. 

“ What do you mean ” 

“ The hundred guineas — ” 

“ Confound your hundred guineas ! Sit down, and listen 
to me. I am an expatriated man.” 

“ How .? ” said Mr. Palk, quietly taking a chair. 

“ Miss Napier is going to be my wife ; and I know she 
will never have the courage to confront my friends — rather, 
I should say, I shall never allow her to sue in any way for 
recognition from them. You see ? Then, I shouldn’t like to 
have my whe brought face to face with people who have paid 
to see her ; and so — and so. Jack, I am going to give up 
England.” 

“ You are paying a long price for wedded happiness, 
Harry.” 

“ There I differ wli»you, Jack, But never mind. I want 
you to help me in getting up a quiet little wedding down in 
Berks ; for I know she will never consent to meeting my rel- 
atives and all the riffraff of my acquaintances — ” 

“ Thank you, Harry.” 

“ And I am sure she will be glad to leave the stage at once, 
if that is possible.” 

“ What a pace you have ! You’re at the end of everything 
when other people are thinking of the beginning. But, in 
good faith, Harry, you are to be congratulated ; and you may 
rely on my services and secrecy to the last.” 

And to Harry Ormond, when he went outside that night, 
it seemed as if all the air around him were full of music. 


THE LOOK BALK 


CHAPTER II. 

THE LOOK BACK. 

How Still the lake of Thun lay, under the fierce heat ! 
The intense blue of it stretched out and over to the opposite 
shore, and there lost itself in the soft green reflection of the 
land ; while the only interruption of the perfect surface was 
a great belt of ruffled light stirred by the wind underneath 
the promontory of Spiez. Then overhead the misty purple 
mass of the Niessen ; and beyond that again the snowy peaks 
of the Schreckhorn, Monch, and Jungfrau glimmering through 
the faint and luminous haze of the sunlight ; and over these 
the serene blue of a Swiss sky. Down in front of the house 
the lake narrowed to the sharp point at which it breaks sud- 
denly away into the rapid, surging green-white waters of the 
Aar ; and at this moment, as seen from the open window, 
two men in a low flat-boat were vainly endeavoring to make 
head against the powerful current. 

At the window sat a little girl of about four years old, with 
large dark-grey eyes, a bright, clear face, magnificent jet-black 
curls ; a doll-looking little thing, perhaps, but for the unusual 
depth and meaning of those soft, large eyes. All at onca 
she put her elbows on a tiny card-table opposite her, clasped 
her hands, and said, with a piteous intonation, 

“ Nu, Nu ; oh, I don’t know what to do ! ” 

Her father, who had been lying silent and listless on a 
couch in the shadow of the room, looked up and asked her 
what was the matter. 

“ My doll is lying out in the sun,” she said, in accents of 
comic despair, “ and the poor thing must be getting a head- 
ache, and I am not allowed, Nu says, to go out just now.” 

“ What a little.actress she is ! ” her father muttered, as he 
returned, with a slight laugh, to his day-dreaming. 

And she was an actress — every atom of her, She had not 
the least self-consciousness ; the assuming of appropriate 
speech and gesture was to her more natural than the bashful 
sense of personality with which most children are burdened. 
A true actress will smile quite naturally into the Polyphemus 
eye of a camera ; a false actress will be conscious of deceit 
even in dressing herself to have her portrait taken. This child 
of, four had the self-abandonment of genius in her mimetic 
efforts. She coaxed her mother and wheedled her father 
with an artless art which was quite apparent ; and her power 


8 


IN SILK A rriRE. 


\ 

of copying the tender phrases she heard used was only 
equalled by the dramatic manner in which she delivered them. 
The appeal to “ Nu ” — which was a contraction for “ nurse ” 
— was her invariable method of expressing intense despair. 
If her mamma reprimanded her, if she lost one of her toys, 
or if she merely felt out of sorts — it was all the same : down 
went the elbows and out came the pitiful exclamation, Oh, 
Nu, Nu, I don’t know what to do ! ” This little girl was the 
daughter of the Marquis of Knottingley, who now lay upon 
the couch over there ; and it is of her that the present history 
purposes to speak. 

For Harry Ormond had been right in his surmise. The 
young actress begged him not to insist upon her meeting his 
friends and acquaintances ; and he, to whom no sacrifice 
was then great enough to show his gratitude for her love, 
readily consented to go abroad after the quiet little ceremony 
which took place down in Berkshire. They went to Thun, 
and lived in this house, which lay some short distance from 
the village, overlooking the beautiful lake ; and here Lord 
Knottingley forgot his old world, as he was by it forgotten. 
His marriage was known only to a few, though it was sus- 
pected by many, and coupled with the unexpected withdrawal 
from the stage of Annie Napier. In the end, however, the 
matter dropped into oblivion, and Harry Ormond was no 
more thought of. 

For several years they lived there a still and peaceful ex- 
istence, varied only by an occasional excursion southward 
into Italy. The halo of his romantic passion still lingered 
around his young wife ; and in the calm delight of her presence 
he forgot old associations, old friends, old habits. 

“You cannot expatriate a married man,” he used to say, 
“ for he carries with him that which makes a home for him 
wherever he goes.” 

She, too, was veiy' happy in those days. She could never 
be persuaded that her husband had riot made a great sacrifice 
in coming abroad for her sake ; and she strove to repay him 
with all the tenderness and gratitude and love of a noble 
nature. She simply worshipped this man ; not even the 
great affection she bore her bright-eyed quaint little daughter 
interfered with the supreme passion. To her he was a mira- 
cle of all honorable and lovable qualities: never had any 
man been so generous, heroic, self-denying. 

And yet Harry Ormond was a weak man — weak by reason 
of that very impulsiveness which often drove him into pro- 
nounced and vigorous action. As he leaned back on his 


THE LOOK BACK. 




couch, after hearing the pathetic complaint of his little daugh- 
ter, there were some such thoughts as these vaguely flitting 
before him : 

“ She will be an actress, too ; a real actress, not a made 
one, thank God ! And if I take her back to England as my 
child, will not all the poor would-be actresses of my acquaint- 
ance assume a fine air of patronage towards her and her 
mother ? But, after all, Annie was on the stage — I cannot 
deny it ; and I cannot quarrel with anybody for reminding 
me of the fact. All the tipsy ruffians of the town have sat 
and stared at her, d — n them ! And just as surely is it im- 
possible that I can remain here all my life. Annie is very 
well, and very affectionate ; but I did not bargain for a life- 
long banishment. And one might as well be dead as live 
always out of London.” 

This was the first seed sown ; and it grew rapidly and 
throve in such a mind as his. He became peevish at times ; 
would occasionally grumble over the accidents of his present 
life, and then took to grumbling at that itself; sometimes 
held long conversations with the small Annie about England, 
and strove to impress her with the knowledge that everything 
fine and pleasant abode there ; finally — and this process had 
been the work of only a week or two — he announced his in- 
tention of going to London on business. 

His wife looked up from her work, with dismay on her face ; 
he had never proposed such a thing before. 

“ Why cannot Mr. Chetwynd do that business for you also, 
Harry t ” she asked. 

“ Because it is too important,” he said, a little impatiently. 
“ You need not fear so much my going to London for a fort- 
night.” 

He spoke in almost an irritated tone. Indeed, he did not 
himself know how impatient he was to get away from trammels 
which he had found irksome. 

She went over to him, and placed her hand gently on his 
head. 

“ Am I too jealous of you, Harry ? I hate England, because 
I think sometimes you have still a lingering wish to be back 
there. But I do not fear your going ; I know you will be as 
anxious to come to me as I shall be to see you.” 

So Lord Knottingley went forth from that house which he 
never saw again. His wife and daughter were at the window ; 
the former pale and calm, the latter vaguely unhappy over an 
excitement and disturbance, which she could not understand. 
As horses started he kissed his hands to them both, ten- 


10 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


derly as he had kissed them three minutes before on the thresh- 
old ; and as the carriage disappeared round the first turning 
of the road he waved his handkerchief. Annie Napier had 
seen the last of her husband she was to see in this world. 
She came away from the window, still quite calm, but with a 
strange look on her pale and beautiful face ; and then she sat 
down, and took her little girl on her knee, and put her arms 
round her, and drew her closely to her. 

“ Mamma, why do you cry ? ” the little one said, looking up 
into the sad, silent face. 

Her mother did not speak. Was the coming shadow already 
hovering over her ? She drew her daughter the more closely 
to her ; and the little girl, thrown back on her usual resource 
for expressing her alarm, only murmured disconsolately, “ Oh, 
Nu, Nu, I don’t know what to do ! ” 


CHAPTER III. 

THEMARCHIONESS. 

Of what befell Lord Knottingley in England — of the influ- 
ences brought to bear on him, of the acquaintances and rela- 
tives who counselled him (if he did receive any counsel but 
from his own inclination) — his wife never knew anything. 
Week after week passed, and she heard nothing from Eng- 
land. Again and again she wrote : there was no answer. 
But at length there arrived at Thun his lordship’s man of bus- 
iness, Mr. Chetwynd, who brought with him all the news for 
which she had sought. 

She was seated at the window overlooking the lake, op- 
pressed and almost terrified by the strange shadows which 
the sunset was weaving among the mountains opposite. The 
sun had so far sunk that only the peaks of the splendid hills 
burned like tongues of fire ; and in the deep valleys on the 
eastern side the thick purple darkness was giving birth to a 
cold gray mist which crept along in nebulous masses like the 
progress of a great army. Down at the opposite shore the mist 
got bluer and denser ; and over all the lake the faint haze 
dulled the sombre glow caught from the lurid red above. Up 
there, high over the mountains, there were other mountains 
and valleys ; and, as she looked, she thought she saw an an- 
gel, with streaming violet hair which floated away eastward, 
and he held to his mouth a trumpet, white as silver, which al- 


THE MARCHIONESS. 


Il 


most touched the peak of the Wetterhorn ; and then the long, 
flowing robes of scarlet and gold became an island, with a 
fringe of yellow light that dazzled her sad eyes. When she 
turned rapidly to see that a servant had brought her a letter, 
the same cloud-visions danc«d before her, pictured in flames 
upon the darkness of the room. 

“ Will it please your ladyship to see Mr. Chetwynd this 
evening or to-morrow morning ? ” the servant inquired. 

“ Did Mr. Chetwynd bring this letter ? ” she asked, hur- 
riedly. 

“Yes, your ladyship,” said the man. 

“Tell him I will see him this evening — by-and-by — in half 
an hour.” 

Standing there, with a faint pink light streaming in upon the 
paper, she read these words : 

“ Dear Annie, — Things have changed greatly since I was 
in England before, and my present visit seems to have brought 
me back again to life. It would be impossible for me to let 
you know how- many reflections have been suggested to me 
since I came here, and perhaps I ought to go on at once to 
the main purport of my letter. You are my wife — legally mar- 
ried — as you know ; and no one can deprive you of the privi- 
leges pertaining to your rank, any more than they can deprive 
you of my esteem and affection. At the same time, you know 
how very exclusive my friends are ; and I am convinced that 
for you to seek companionship with them would ordy bring 
you discomfort vexation. Now, your own good sense, my 
dear, will show you that I cannot always remain away from 
England, and allow my property to be left in the hands of 
agents. 1 see so many alterations for the worse, and so much 
urgent need for improvement, that I am certain I must remain 
in EnglaTid for several years, if not for life. Now, my dear, 
I have a proposal to make which you will think cruel at first, 
but which — I know well — you will afterward regard as being 
the wisest thing you could do for all of us. Nobody here 
seems to know of our marriage ; certainly none of my own 
family seem to take it for granted that I have a wife living ; 
and if I were to bring you over I should have to introduce 
you, with explanations which would be awkward to both you 
and me — which, indeed, would be insulting to you. What I de- 
sire you to do is to remain in the house you now occupy, which 
shall be yours ; a sufficient income — to be named by yourself 
— will be settled upon you ; and Annie will be supplied with 
whatever governesses and masters she requires. I hope you 


12 


IN SILK ATTIRE, 


will see the propriety of this arrangement ; and more partic- 
ularly oh account of one circumstance which, unfortunately, 
I am compelled to explain. You know I never allowed you 
to become friends with any of the English people we met in 
Italy. The reason was simply that they, in common with my 
relatives, believed that you and I were not married ; and 
could I drag you, my dear, into the ignominy of an explana- 
tion ? For the same reason, I hope you will conceal your 
real rank in the event of your ever meeting with English peo- 
ple at Thun ; and while I wait your answer — which I trust 
you will calmly consider — I am, whatever unhappy circum- 
stances may divide us, your loving husband, 

“ Harry Ormond.” 

She read this letter to the very end, and seemed not to 
understand it ; she was only conscious of a dull sense of pain. 
Then she turned away from it — from its callous phrases, its 
weak reasoning, its obvious lies, all of which seemed a mes- 
sage from a stranger, not from Harry Ormond — and accident- 
ally she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror. She saw there 
what recalled her to herself ; fo'- the ghastly face she beheld, 
tinged with the faint glow of the sunset, was terror-stricken 
and wild. In the next second she had banished that look ; 
she rung the bell ; and then stood erect and firm, with all the 
fire of her old profession tingling in her. 

“ Bid Mr. Chetwynd come here,” she said to the servant. 

In a minute or two the door was again opened, and there 
entered a tall, gray-haired man, with a grave and rather kindly 
expression of face. 

She held out the letter, and said, in a cold, clear tone, 

“ Do you know the contents of this letter ? ” 

“ I do, your ladyship,” said he. 

“ And you have been sent to see what money I should take 
for keeping out of the way, and not troubling Lord Knotting- 
ley ? Very well — ” 

“ I assure your ladyship — ” 

“ You need not speak,” she said, with a dignity of gesture 
which abashed him — which made him regard her with the 
half-frightened, half-admiring look she had many a time seen 
on the faces of the scene-shifters after one of her passionate 
climaxes ; “ I presume I am still the Marchioness of Knot- 
tingley ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ And my husband has commissioned you to receive my 
instructions ? ” 


THE MARCHIONESS, 13 

He has, your ladyship ; and if you would only allow me 
to explain the circumstances — ” 

“ Mr. Chetwynd, you and I used to talk frankly with each 
other. I hope you will not embarrass yourself by making an 
apology for his lordship, when he himself has done that so 
admirably in this letter. Now, be good enough to attend to 
what I say. You will secure for me and my daughter a pas- 
sage to America by the earliest vessel we can reach from here, 
and to-morrow morning you will accompany us on the first 
stage of the journey. I will take so much money from you 
as will land us in New York ; whatever surplus there may be 
will be returned to Lord Knottingley.” 

“ May I beg your ladyship to consider — to remain here 
until I communicate with his lordship ? ” 

“ I have considered,” she said, calmly, in a tone which put 
an end to further remonstrance, “-and I do not choose to re- 
main in this house another day.” 

So Mr. Chetwynd withdrew. He saw nothing of this 
strangely self-possessed woman until the carriage was at the 
door next morning, ready to take her from the house which 
she had cast forever behind her. 

When he did see her he scarcely recognized her. She was 
haggard and whi<"'v eyes were red and wild ; she appeared 
to be utterly broke. 1 .Sown. She was dressed in black, and 
so was the little girl she led by the hand. He did not know 
that she had spent the entire night in her daughter’s room, 
and that it was not sleep which had occupied those long hours. 

So it was that Annie Napier and her daughter arrived in 
America ; and there she went again upon the stage, under the 
name of Annie Brunei, and earned a living for both of them. 
But the old fire had gone out, and there was not one who 
recognized in the actress her who had several years before 
been the idol of London. One message only she sent to her 
husband; and it was written, immediately on her reaching 
New York in these words : 

“ Harry Ormond, — I married you for your love. When 
you take that from me, I do not care to have anything in its 
place. Nor need you try to buy my silence; I shall never 
trouble you. 

“ Annie Napier.” ^ 

% 

On the receipt of that brief note, Harry Ormond had a se- 
vere fit of compunction. The freedom of his new life was 
strong upon him, however ; and in process of time he, like. 


14 


IN SILK A TTJRE, 


most men of his stamp, grew to have a conviction that he was 
not responsible for the wrong he had done. If she had wil- 
fully relinquished the luxury he offered her, was he to blame ? 

Ten years afterward Lord Knottingley lay very sick. He 
was surrounded by attentive relatives, who, having affection- 
ately interested themselves in him during his life, naturally 
expected to be paid for their solicitude at his death. But at 
the last moment remorse struck him. As the drown^pg man 
is said to be confronted by a ghastly panorama of his 
whole life, so he, in these last hours, recalled the old tender- 
ness and love of his youth, which he had so cruelly out- 
raged. He would have sent for her then ; he would have 
braved the ridicule and indignation which he had once so 
feared ; but it was too late. One act of reparation was alone 
possible. When Harry Ormond, Marquis of Knottingley, 
died, it was found that he had left, by a will dated only a few 
days before his death, his whole property to his wife, of whom 
nobody knew anything, accompanying the bequest with such 
expressions of affection and penitence as sorely puzzled his 
lady relatives. 

Not for several months did the lawyers who acted for the 
trustees discover where the missing wife had taken up her 
abode in America ; and then an elderly gentleman waited 
upon the actress to break the news of her husband’s death, 
and to invite her to become the mistress of a large property 
and the wearer of a proud title. 

“ How’ pleased she will be ! ” he had said to himself, before 
seeing her. 

Once in her presence, however, he did not so hastily judge 
the tender-eyed, beautiful, melancholy woman ; and it was with 
all the delicacy he could command that he told his story, and 
watched its effect upon her handsome, sad face. 

But these ten years of labor had not quite broken Annie 
Napier’s spirit. Out of her grief and her tears — for she was 
a woman, and could not help still loving the lover of her 
youth — she rose with her old grandeur of manner, and re- 
fused the offer. Not theatrically, nor angrily, but simply and 
definitely, so that the messenger from England, perplexed 
and astonished, could only beg of her to think, not of her- 
self, but of her daughter. 

“ My daughter,” she said, perhaps rather bitterly, “ will never 
seek, any more than myself, to go among those people. God 
knows that it is she alone whom I consider in everything I do. 
i have taught her to earn her own bread ; and I wall teach her 
that her only chance of happiness is to marry, if she does 


THE MARCHIONESS. 


marry, in her own profession. You appear to be surprised, 
sir ; but what I say to you is not the result of any hasty im- 
pulse. Have you seen her ? ” she added, with a touch of 
pride. “ Have you seen her since you came over ? Some 
years hence you may find her in England, and she will reap 
my old triumphs again.” 

“ If you will only consider what you are taking from her — 
the position she would hold — the — ” 

For an instant the large dark eyes of the actress were filled 
with a strange, wistful look ; was she striving — as we often do 
strive — to anticipate the current of years, and look over the 
long future lying in wait for this girl of hers 1 . 

“ I have considered, sir, many a year ago. She has been 
brought up in perfect ignorance of her birth and name, and 
there is no one of her associates who knows our secret. So 
she will remain.” 

This unlooked-for termination to his mission so astounded 
the lawyer that he could not at first comprehend the decision 
of her tone. 

“You wall understand, madam,” he said, “ that profession- 
ally I have no resource but to return to England with your 
message. But may I not beg you to reflect ? Is it not possible 
that you have been moved to this decision by a — what shall I 
say ? — a view of things which may appear natural to you in 
your professional life, but which is looked upon otherwise by 
the outside world ? ” 

“ You think I am led astray by theatrical notions of life ? ” 
she said, with a smile. “ It was my experience of your ‘ out- 
side world ’ which made me resolve that my girl should never 
suffer that which I have suffered. The resolution is a very 
old one, sir. But supposing that I should die, would she 
then have this property — would it belong to her ? ” 

“ Undoubtedly, if she chooses to accept it.” 

After a few moments’ silence, the prudent and tender mo- 
ther having calculated every possibility which might affect 
her daughter’s happiness, she said to him : 

“ In that case, sir, I can always provide against her suffer- 
ing w^ant. I will give her to-day your address in England, 
and tell her that if at any future time I am taken from her, 
and if she should ever be in need, she can go to you ; and 
then, sir, you will remember who Annie Brunei is.” 

“ And you absolutely condemn your daughter to be an 
actress, w'heii a word from you could make her an English 
lady — ” 

'I'lie woman before him drew herself up. 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


i6 

“ When m}^ daughter ceases to believe that an actress may 
be a lady, it will be time for her to apply to you for the rank 
she has lost.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE ACTRESS. 

It was near midnight when an unusually notable and bril- 
liant little party sat down to supper in the largest hall of a 
hotel in the neighborhood of Charing Cross. Brilliant the 
meeting was, for beneath the strong lights shone the long 
white table with its gleaming crystal, and silver, and flowers ; 
and notable it was in that the persons sitting there were, 
every one of them, marked by an obvious individualism of 
face and dress. They were no mere company of cultivated 
nothings, as like each other in brain, costume, and manner 
as the wineglasses before them ; scarcely a man or woman 
of them had not his or her own special character, rendered 
apparent by this or that peculiarity of facial line or inten- 
tionrd adornment. 

But there was one woman there — or girl, rather, for she 
was clearly not over twenty — whose character you could not 
easily catch. You might watch the expression of her eyes, 
listen to her bright, rapid, cheerful talk, and study her bear- 
ing towards her associates ; and then confess that there was 
something illusive about her — she had not exhibited her real 
nature to you — you knew nothing of her but those superficial 
characteristics which were no ■’ index to the spirit under- 
neath. 

Slight in figure, and somewhat pale and dark, there was 
nevertheless a certain dignity about her features, and a state- 
liness in her gestures, -which gave an almost massive grandeur 
to her appearance. Then her magnificent black hair lay 
around the clear, calm face, which was rendered the more 
intensely spiritual by large eyes of a deep and tender gray. 
They were eyes, under these long eyelashes, capable of a 
great sadness, and yet they were not sad. There seemed to 
play around the beautiful, intellectual face a bright, superfi- 
cial, unconscious vivacity ; and she herself appeared to take 
a quite infantine interest in the cheerful trivialities around 
her. For the rest, she was dressed in a gleaming white 
moire, with tight sleeves which came down to her tiny wrists, 


THE ACTRESS. 


17 


and there ended in a faint line of blue ; and through the 
great braided masses of her black hair there was wound a 
thick cord of twisted silver, which also had a thread of blue 
cunningly interwoven with it. The artistic possibilities of 
her fine face and complexion were made the most of ; for 
she 7£/as an artist, one of the few true artists who have been 
seen upon our modern stage. 

This was Miss Annie Brunei, who in three months from 
the date of her arrival in this country had won the heart of 
London. The young American actress, with her slight and 
nervous physique, her beautiful head, and the dark lustre of 
her eyes, was photographed, lithographed, and written about 
everywhere : people went and wept covertly beneath the 
spell of her voice ; for once unanimity prevailed among all 
the critics who were worth attention, and they said that the 
new actress was a woman of genius. Who could doubt it 
that had witnessed the utter self-abandonment of her imper- 
sonations ? She did not come upon the stage with a thought 
about her jewellery, a consciousness of her splendid hair, 
and an eye to the critical corner of the stalls. On the stage 
she was no longer mistress of herself. Her eyes deepened 
until they were almost black ; her face was stirred with the 
white light of passion ; and her words were instinct with the 
tenderness which thrills a theatre to its core. When the 
sudden intensity died down, when she resumed her ordinary 
speech and dress, she seemed to have come out of a trance. 
Not a trace remained of that fire and those intonations which 
were the result of unconscious creation ; her eyes resumed 
their serene, happy indifference, her face its pleased, child- 
like expression. Swift, active, dexterous she was, full of all 
sorts of genial and merry activities ; that kindling of the eye 
and tremor of the voice belonged to the dream-life she led 
elsewhere. 

The supper was rather a nondescript affair, resembling the 
little entertainment sometimes given, by an author on the 
production of his new piece. As the play, however, in which 
Miss Brunei had just appeared was “ Romeo and Juliet,” 
there was a little difficulty about the author’s being present 
to perform the ordinary duties ; and so the manager’s very 
good friend, the Graf Von Schonstein, had stepped in and 
offered to play the part of host on the occasion. 

The Graf, indeed, occupied the chair — a large and corpu- 
lent man, with a broad, fair face, small blue eyes, red hands, 
a frilled shirt, flowered \\'aistcoat, and much jewellery. He 
had made the acquaintance of Miss Brunei during the previ- 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


iS 

ous year in America, and lost no time in renewing it, now 
that she had so suddenly become so famous in England. Of 
the Graf, who, it may be mentioned, was once a respectable 
tea-broker in Thames Street, E.C., we shall hear more. 

On the left of the chairman sat the manager, a middle-aged 
man, with gray hair and a melancholy face ; on the right Miss 
Brunei, and next to her a young man of the name of Will 
Anerley, a friend of Count Schonstein. Then followed sev- 
eral members of the company, an elderly little woman who 
officiated as Miss Brunei’s guardian, two or three critics, and 
a young man who spoke to nobody, but kept his eyes intently 
fixed upon a charming soubrette (with whom he had quarrelled 
some days before), who was wickedly flirting with Mercutio. 
There was no lack of jest and talk down both sides of the ta- 
ble, for the wine-glasses were kept well filled ; and occasion- 
ally there rung out, clear and full, the mellifluous laughter of 
the Nurse — a stout, big, red-faced woman, who had, a habit 
of using her pocket handkerchief where a table-napkin might 
have been more appropriate — as she crac^d her "small jokes 
with Benvolio, who sat opposite to her. Then Frfar Laurence, 
who had thrown aside his robe and become comic, happened 
to jolt a little Champagne into La§y Capulet’s lap_j^and the 
angrier she grew over his carelessness, the more did the 
people laugh, until she herself burst out with a big, good- 
natured guffaw. 

Meanwhile the small clique at the upper end of the table 
was engaged in a conversation by itself. Count Schonstein 
appealing to the manager vehemently : 

“ Was I not right in begging you to give the public Miss 
Brunei’s Juliet? There never was such a triumph. Miss Bru- 
nei ; I assure you, you have taken London by storm. And 
with the public satisfied, will the critics object ? You will 
not see a dissentient voice in the papers on Monday morning. 
What do you say to that, Mr. Helstone ? ” 

The man whom he addressed had forsaken the cluster of 
his brother critics, and was busily engaged in amusing the 
pretty soubrette^ whom he had entirely drawn away from poor 
Mercutio. 

“ Why,” he said, with a faint smile, apparently bent upon 
puzzling the '‘gorgeous-looking gentleman who had impru- 
dently interrupted him, “ 1 should be sorry to see such una- 
nimity, for. Miss Brunei’s sake. Conscientious journalism, like 
every conscientious journalist, knows that there are two sides 
to every question, and will do its best to write on both. The 
odds will be the truth.,” 


THE ACTRESS. 


19 


“Do you mean to tell me,” asked the count, somewhat 
pompously, “ that you have no more conscience than to advo- 
cate different things in different papers ? ” 

“ If I write what I know on one side of a subject in one 
paper, and write up the other side in another paper, I free 
myself from a charge of suppressing truth ; and I — ” 

Whereupon the soubrette^ with the brown curls and the 
wicked blue eyes, pulled his sleeve and made him upset a 
claret glass. 

“ What a clumsy creature you are ! ” she whispered. “ And 
what is the use of talking to that ridiculous old fool ? Tell 
me, do you think Miss Brunei handsome } ” 

“ I think she has the face of a woman of genius,” he said, 
with a glance of genuine admiration. 

“ Bah ! that means nothing. Don’t you think she shows 
her teeth on purpose when she laughs '? and then those big, 
soft eyes make her look affectedly sentimental. Why do you 
grin so ? I suppose I am not as handsome as she is ; but I 
wonder if she could put on my gloves and boots ? ” 

“ You have adorable hands and feet. Miss Featherstone ; 
everybody allows that.” 

“ Thank you. They say that every ugly woman has pretty 
hands and feet.” 

“Nature leaves no creature absolutely unprotected, my 
dear. Let me give you some vanilla cream.” 

“You are a brute. I hate you ! ” 

“ I have generally found that when a young lady says she 
hates you, she means she loves you — if you have a good in- 
come.” 

“ I have generally found that when a young lady rejects 
her suitor because of his want of brain, he instantly says she 
cast him off because of his want of money. But I wish you’d 
keep quiet, and let me hear what Mr. Melton is saying about 
next week. If he thinks I’ll play the people in with a farce, 
as well as play in the burlesque, he is mistaken. However, 
since you people have taken to write up Miss Brunei, she 
will order everything ; and if the poor dear thinks seven too 
soon for her nerves after tea, I suppose she will get played 
whatever she wants.” 

“ Spiteful thing ! You’re thinking of her handsome face 
and eyes and hair : why don’t you look in the mirror and 
calm yourself ? ” 

The little group at the head of the table had now split 
itself into two sections ; and while Count Schbnstein talked 
almost exclusively to Mr. Melton, Miss Biunel was engaged 


30 


JN SILK A TTIRE. 


in what was apparently an interesting conversation with 
Will Anerley, who sat next her. But a patient observer would 
have noticed that the stout and pompous count kept his 
eyes pretty well fixed upon the pair on his right ; and that he 
did not seem wholly pleased by the amused look which was 
on Miss Brunei’s face as she spoke, in rather a low tone, to 
her companion : 

“ You confess you are disappointed with me. That is quite 
natural ; but tell me how I differ from what you expected me 
to be.” 

She turned her large, lustrous eyes upon him, and there 
was a faint smile on her face. 

“ Well,” he said, “ on the stage you are so unlike any one 
I ever saw that I did not expect to find you in private life 
like — like any one else, in fact.” 

“ Do you mean that I am like the young ladies you would 
expect to find in your friends’ house, if you were asked to go 
and meet some strangers ? ” 

“ Precisely.” • 

“ You are too kind,” she said, looking down. “ I have 
always been taught, and I know, that private people and pro- 
fessional people are separated by the greatest differences of 
character and habits ; and that if I went among those young 
ladies of whom you speak, I should feel like some dreadfully 
wicked person who had got into heaven by mistake and was 
very uncomfortable. Have you any sisters ? ” 

“One. Well, she is not my sister, but a distant relation, 
who has been brought up in my father’s house as if she were 
my sister .? ” 

“ Am I like her ? ” 

“No. I mean, you are not like her in appearance ; but in 
manner, and in what you think, and so forth, you would find 
her as like yourself as possible. I cannot understand your 
strange notion that some unaccountable barrier exists be- 
tween you and other people.” 

“ That is because you have never lived a professional life,” 
she said. “ I know, myself, that there is the greatest differ- 
ence bet^en me now and when I am in ‘one of my parts. 
Then I am almost unconscious of myself — I scarcely know 
what I’m doing ; and now I should like to go on sitting like 
this, making fun with you or with anybody, or amusing it^y- 
self in any way. Do you know, I fancy nothing would give 
me so much delight as battledoor and shuttlecock if I might 
have it in my own house ; but I am afraid to propose such a 
thing to my guardian, Mrs. Christmas, or she would think I 


THE ACTE ESS. 


21 


was mad. Did you never wish you were only ten years old 
again, that you might get some fun without being laughed 
at ? 

“ I used constantly to go bird’s-nesting in Russia, when we 
were too lazy to go on a regular shooting-party, and never 
enjoyed anything half so much. An*d you know cricket has 
been made a manly game in order to let men think them- 
selves boys for an hour or two.” 

“ I should like you to become acquainted with my dear old 
Christmas — do you see her down there ? — and then you would 
know how a professional life alters one. It was she, not my 
dear mother, who taught me all the gestures, positions, and 
elocution which are the raw material we actresses use to de- 
ceive you. How she scolds me when I do anything that dif^ 
ffiis fmjn her prescriptions ! And indeed she cannot un3eT- 
stand how one, in the hurry of a part, should abandon one’s 
self to chance, and forget the ordinary ‘ business.’ Now the 
poor old creature has to content herself with a little delicate 
compliment or two instead of the applause of the pit ; and I 
am sometimes put to my wits’ end to say something kind to 
her, being her only audience. Won’t you come and help me, 
some afternoon ? ” 

The unconscious audacity of the proposal, so quietly and 
so simply expressed, staggered the young man ; and he could 
only manage to mention something about the very great 
pleasure it would give him to do so. 

He was very much charmed with his companion ; blit he 
was forced to confess to himself that she did, after all, differ 
a good deal from the gentlewoman whom he was in the habit 
of meeting. Nor was it wonderful that she should : the 
daughter of an actress, brought up from her childhood among 
stage-traditions, driven at an early period, by her mother’s 
death, to earn her own living, and having encountered for 
several years all the vicissitudes and experience of a half-va- 
grant life, it would have been a miracle had she not caught 
up some angular peculiarities from this rough-and-ready edu- 
cation. Anerley was amazed to find that easy audacity and 
frankness of speech, her waywardness and occasional eccen- 
tricity of behavior, conjoined with an almost ridiculous sim- 
plicity. The very attitude her Bohernianism led her to adopt 
towards the respectable in life was in itself the result of a 
profound, childlike ignorance ; and, as he afterward discov- 
ered, was chiefly the result of the tuition of a tender and anx- 
ious mother, who was afraid of her daughter ever straying 
from the folds of a profession which is so generous and 


22 


ri^r SILK A T'riRE. 


kindly to the destitute and unprotected. All this, and niucli 
more, he was afterward to learn of the young girl who had so 
interested him. In the mean time she seemed to him to be a 
spoiled child, who had something of the sensitiveness and 
sagacity of a woman. 

“ Look how he blushes ! ” said the charming soubrette to 
her companion. 

“Who?” 

“The gentleman beside Miss Brunei.” 

“ Are you jealous, that you watch these two so closely ? ” 

“ I’m not ; but I do consider him handsome— handsomer 
than any man I know. He is not smooth, and fat, and 
polished, like most gentlemen who do nothing. He looks 
like an engine-driver cleaned — and then his great brown 
mustache and his thick hair — no. I’ll tell you what he’s like ; 
he is precisely the Ancient Briton you see in bronzes, with 
the thin face and the matted hair — ” 

“ And the scanty dress. I suppose the ancient Britons, 
like Scotchmen nowadays, wore an indelicate costume, in or- 
der to save cloth.” 

“ I do consider him handsome ; but her / And as for her 
being a great actress, and a genius, and all that, I don’t con- 
sider her to be a bit better than any of us.” 

“ If that is the case, I can quite understand and approve 
your depreciation of her.” 

“ I will box your ears ! ” 

“ Don’t. They might tell tales ; and you know I’m mar- 
ried.” 

“ Tant pis pour foi.” 

The Ancient Briton had meanwhile recovered his equa- 
nimity ; and both he and Miss Brunei had joined in an argu- 
ment Mr. Melton was setting forth about the deliciousness 
of being without restraint. The grave manager, under the 
influence of a little Champagne, invariably rose into the realm 
of abstract propositions ; and indeed his three companions, 
all of them in a merry mood, helped him out with a dozen 
suggestions and confirmations. ^ 

“ And worst of all,” said Miss Brunei, “ I dislike be^g 
bound down by time. Why must I go home just now, merify 
because it is late ? I should like at this very moment to go 
straight out into the country, without any object, and without 
any prospect of return.” . 

“ And why not do so ? ” cried Count Schonstein. “ My ^ 
brougham can be brought round in a few minutes ; let us 


THE ACTRESS. 


n 

four get in and drive straight away out of London — any- 
where.” 

“ A capital idea,” said Melton. “ What do you say, Miss 
Brunei ? ” 

‘‘ I will go with pleasure,” she replied, with bright childish 
fun in her eyes. “ But we must take Mrs. Christmas with us. 
And that will be five ? ” 

“ Then let me go outside and smoke,” said Will Anerley. 

The supper party now broke up ; and the ladies went ofi to 
get their bopnets, wrappers, and cloaks. In a few minutes 
Count Schonstein’s brougham was at the door ; and Miss 
Brunei, having explained to Mrs. Christmas the position of 
affairs, introduced her to Will Anerley. She had come for- 
ward to the door of the brougham, and Anerley saw a very 
small bright-eyed woman, with remarkably white hair, who 
was in an extreme nervous flutter. He was about to go out- 
side, as he had promised, when Count Schonstein made the 
offer, which his position demanded, to go instead. 

“ Yes, do,” said Miss Brunei, putting her hand lightly on 
Will Anerley’s arm. 

The count was, therefore, taken at his word ; Anerley re- 
mained by the young actress’s side, and, Mrs. Christmas 
being dragged in, away rolled the brougham. 

“ And wherever are you going at this time of night, Miss 
Annie ! ” said the old woman, in amazement. 

“ For a drive into the country, mother. Look how bright 
it is ! ” 

And bright it was. There was no moon as yet, but there 
was clear starlight; and as they drove past the Green Park, 
the long rows of ruddy lamps hung in the far darkness like 
strings of golden points, the counterpart of the gleaming sil- 
ver points above. And there, away in the north, glimmered 
the pale jewels of Cassiopeia ; the white star on Andromeda’s 
forehead stood out from the dark sea ; Orion coldly burned 
in the south, and the red eye of Aldebaran throbbed in the 
strange twilight. The dark-gray streets, and the orange 
lamps, and the tall houses, and the solitary figures of men and 
women hurried past and disappeared ; but the great blue 
vault, with its twinkling eyes, accompanied the carriage win- 
dows, rolled onward with them, and always glimmered in. 

This mad frolic was probably pleasant enough for every 
one of the merry little party inside the vehicle ; but it could 
scarcely be very fascinating to the victimized count, who 
found himself driving through the chill night-air in company 
with his own qoachman. Perhaps, however, he wished to 


H 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


earn the gratitude of Miss Brunei by this dumb obedience to 
her whim ; for he did not seek to arrest or alter the course of 
the brougham as it was driven blindly out into the country. 
He could hear the laughter from within the carriage, for they 
were all in the best of moods — except, perhaps, Miss Brunei, 
whom the sight of the stars rather saddened. 

At length they came to a toll-bar. Melton put his head 
out and asked the count where they were. 

Hounslow.” 

“ Is that the Bell Inn ? ” 

“Yes.” 

Then suppose we get out, wake the people up, and give 
the horses a rest, while we have a little trip on foot to Houns- 
low Heath ? ” 

“ Is not that where all the murders and robberies used to 
be committed ? ” Miss Brunei was heard to say. • 

“This is the very inn,” said Will Anerley, “which the 
gentlemen of the road used to frequent ; but, unfortunately, 
the Heath has all been enclosed. There is no more Heath.” 

“We shall find something that will do for it,” said Melton, 
as the party left the brougham and passed down the opposite 
road. 

Once out of the glare of the lamp at the toll-bar, they had 
nothing to guide them but the cold, clear starlight. Black 
lay the hedges on either side ; black stood the tall trees 
against the sky ; blacker still the deep ditch which ran along 
the side of the path, or disappeared undier the gravelled path- 
way leading up to some roadside cottage. How singularly 
the light laughter of the little party smote upon the deep, 
intense silence of the place ; and what a strange contrast 
there was between their gay abandonment and the sombre 
gloom around them ! There was something weird and 
striking running through the absurdity of this incomprehen- 
sible excursion. 

“There,” said Melton, going up to a gate, and peering 
over into a vague, dark meadow, “ is a bit of the old Heath, 
I know. Was it here, I wonder, that Claude Duval danced 
his celebrated dance with the lady? ” 

“ Let us suppose it was,” said the count. “ And why 
should we not have a dance now on the Heath ? Mr. Melton, 
will you give us some music ? 

“ With pleasure,” said the manager, opening the gate, and 
allowing his merry companions to pass into the meadow. 

They went along until they were within a short distance of 
a clump of trees ; and then, the count having been ingeniously 


ST. MARY-KITBY. 


25 


compelled to take Mrs. Christmas as his partner, Miss Brunei 
being Anerley’s vis-d-vis^ the manager proceeded to sing a set 
of quadrilles in rather an unmelodious manner, varying la, 
la, la, with tow, row, row. The great, pompous count puffed, 
and blew, and guffawed ; the little Mrs. Christmas danced 
with a prim and grave precision ; while all did their best to 
help out the figures, and stumbled, and set each other right 
again, and laughed right heartily over the mad performance. 

Then there was a sudden shriek, clear and sharp, that rung 
through the darkness ; the dancing suddenly ceased ; and 
Anerley sprung forward just in time to prevent Miss Brunei 
from sinking to the ground, her face pale as death. 

“ Did you not see it ” she gasped, still treffibling. Some- 
thing white flashed past through the trees there — in a mo- 
ment — and it seemed to have no shape.” 

“By Jove#I saw it too !” said Melton, who had abruptly 
ceased his singing ; “ and for the life of me I can’t imagine 
what it was.” 

“ A white cow,” suggested Anerley. 

“ I tell you it flew past like a streak of lightning,” said 
Melton. 

“ More likely a white doe belonging to the park over 
there,” said the count, who was inwardly the most terrified 
person present. 

“ Let us get away from here,” said Miss Brunei, who had 
recovered her self-composure, but was very grave. “ What- 
ever it w^as, the grass is too wet for us to remain.” 

So they left the meadow, and walked rather silently back 
to the toll-bar, got into the brougham, and were driven to 
their respective homes. 


CHAPTER V. 

ST. MARY-KIRBY. 

Champagne has many good qualities, but none more 
marked than the mild and temporary nature of the stimulus 
it affords. The bright and cheerful excitement it produces 
— so long as it is neither Russian Champagne, nor one of 
those highly ingenious products which chemistry and the wit 
of man hax e devised — does not last so long as to interfere 


26 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


with any serious occupation, even should that be merely 
sleep ; while it involves none of the gloomy reaction which 
too often haunts the sparkle of other wines with a w'arning 
shadow. When Will Anerley got up on the morning follow- 
ing the wild escapade on Hounslow Heath, it w^as not in- 
dulgence in wine which smote him with a half-conscious re- 
morse. He had neither a throbbing headache nor a feverish 
pulse. But as he looked out of his bedroom window and 
saw the pale sun glimmering down on the empty sti^eets, the 
strange calm of a Sunday morning — touching even in the 
cramped thoroughfares of London — fell upon him, and he 
thought of the hectic gayety of the previous night, and knew 
that all the evening one tender girlish heart had been weary- 
ing for his coming, away down in a quiet Kentish vale. 

His absence was the more inexcusable in that it was un- 
certain how soon he might have to leave England^ He was a 
civil engineer ; and from the time he had left the apprentice 
stool his life had been a series of foreign excursions. He 
had been two years in Turkey, another year in Canada, six 
months in Russia, and so on ; and at this moment he had 
been but a short time home from Wallachia, whence he had 
returned with his face browner, his frame tougher, than ever. 
There was little of the young Englishman about him. There 
was a Celtic intensity in him which had long ago robbed him 
of the loose fat, the lazy gait, the apathetic indifference 
which generally fall to the lot of lads born and brought up 
as he had been ; and now — with his big brown mustache, 
thick hair, and hazel eyes, and with that subdued determina- 
tion in his look, which had made the little soubrette call him 
an Ancient Briton — he was a man whom some would call 
handsome, but whom most people would admire chiefly on 
account of the intelligence, firmness of character, and deter- 
mination written upon his face. 

He dressed and breakfasted hastily, got a cab, and was 
just in time to catch the train. After nearly an hour’s drive 
down through Kent — pleasant enough on that bright spring 
morning — he reached Horton, the station nearest to St. Mary- 
Kirby. 

Horton stands on the top of a hill sloping down into the 
valley in which lies St. Mary- Kirby ; and if you climb, as 
Will Anerley did, to the top of a coal-heap which generally 
stands beside the empty trucks of the station, you will see the 
long wooded hollow from end to end, with its villages, 
churches, and breadths of field and meadow. It was not to 
look 'again, however, on iluit pretty bit of scenery which he 


^t: mary-kirby. 


27 


knew so well that he scrambled to the top of the coals, and 
stood there, with his hand shading his eyes from the sunlight. 
It was Dove Anerley he wished to see come along the valley, 
on her way to church; and he waited there to discover what 
road she should take, that so he might intercept her. 

Yet there seemed to be no living thing in the quiet valley. 
Sleepily lay the narrow river in its winding channel, marked 
by twin rows of pollard willows, now green with their first 
leaves ; sleepily lay the thin blue smoke above the far white 
cottages and the gray churches ; sleepily lay the warm sun- 
light over the ruddy ploughed fields, the green meadows, the 
dark fir-wood along the top of the hill ; and sleepily it struck 
on the great, gleaming chalk-pit on the side of the incline ; 
while a faint blue haze hung around the dim horizon, half 
hiding the white specks of houses on the distant uplands. It 
was a beau 5 fill picture in the tender light of the young spring ; 
but there was no Dove Anerley there. 

He looked at his watch. 

“ Half-past ten,” he thought ; “ and as our church is under 
repair, she is sure to walk to Woodhill church. But if I go 
down into the valley, I shall be sure to miss her.” 

As he spoke, there was visible a tiny speck of gray and 
brown crossing a broad meadow near the river ; and almost 
at the same moment the subdued and distant music of the 
church-bells floated up on the air. Will Anerley leaped from 
the coal-heap to the ground ; and then straight down the hill 
he went, making free use of the fields on his way. 

He suddenly found that the still valley was full of life, and 
sound, and gladness ; that the morning was a miracle of morn- 
ings; that the breath of the sweet spring air seemed laden 
with the secret odors of innumerable flowers. And, indeed, 
as he walked on, there was plenty to delight him, even had 
Dove Anerley not been there. For the lamblike March had 
beqeathed to his fickle sister a legacy of golden weather, and 
she now carried it in her open hand, sharing it with all of us. 
The orchards were white with bloom, here and there a rose- 
red apple-tree among the snowy bunches of the pears; the 
meadows were thick with daisies and cowslips, the gray sheep 
throwing sharp black shadows on the glowing green ; the tall 
elms, sprinkled over with young leaves, rose from rough and 
ragged earth banks that were covered with withered brier and 
glistening celandine, dull coltsfoot and ruddy dead-nettle; 
the stately chestnuts had burst their resinous buds, and were 
already showing brown spikes of closed flowers ; along the 
hedges, where the blackbird was nursing her young, and the 


28 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


thrush sitting on her second nestful of blue eggs, the blossoms 
of the blackthorn sparkled here an there like white stars 
among the rich, thick green of the elm ; and through all these 
colors and lights and shadows ran and hummed and sung the 
coarse cawing of rooks, the murmur of bees, the splashing 
of the river down at the mill, and the silvery music of a lark 
which hung as if suspended by a thread from the cold, clear 
blue above. 

St. Mary- Kirby was just visible, and no more. You could 
see the quaint old mill down by the river-side, and near it an 
ancient farm-house, with black cattle and horses in the yard, 
and white pigeons flying about the rusty-red tiles of the farm 
buildings. Farther up, the old gray church, built of “ Kentish 
rag,” shone brightly in the sunshine ; and then, among the 
trees, you caught a glimpse of the cottages, of Mr. Anerley’s 
house, fronting the village green, and of the old Ann with its 
swaying sign. There is not in Kent a more thoroughly Eng- 
lish village than St. Mary-Kirby ; and one, at least, of its 
inhabitants used to pray fervently every Sunday morning that 
no railway should ever come near its precincts. 

When Will Anerley reached the bottom of the valley, he 
found a number of St. Mary-Kirby people walking, in isolated 
groups, towards Woodhill church ; but one only of these peo- 
ple had chosen a somewhat circuitous route through the mead- 
ows lying on the south side of the river. Why she had 
chosen this route was probably known only to herself ; but, 
at any rate. Will pa-used by the side of a stile to which the path 
through the meadows led. He had recognized from a con- 
siderable distance the slate-gray silk dress and brown velvet 
jacket which she wore ; and now, as he watched her coming 
along he saw that she, too, had recognized him, and that there 
was a pleased look in her eyes. 

“ W% did you come this way ? ” he asked, as she drew near. 

“ Because I thought I should meet you,” she replied, with 
a frank smile. 

He helped her up and down the rude wooden steps, and as 
she alighted upon the other side she suffered him to touch 
her cheek with his lips. 

“Good-morning, Dove.” 

“ Good-morning, Will. I made up my mind to scold you 
dreadfully ; and all the way over from St. Mary I have been 
thinking what I should say to you ; and now I haven’t it in 
my heart to say a single word.” 

“ Heaght ” for “ heart,” she said, and “ woghd ” for 
“word;” and there was a quaint softness in this ,purriiLg, 


ST. MARY-A'IRBY. 


29 


half-foreign pronunciation which made her utterances all the 
more tender, and seemed to harmonize with the childlike 
prettiness of the large violet eyes set in the delicate face, 
which was surrounded by crisp and wavy light-brown hair. 

“ That’s a good girl,” he said ; and then she put her hand 
on his arm, and they walked away between the green hedges, 
towards Woodhill church. 

It was at a concert in St. James’s Hall that I first saw Dove 
Anerley ; and while the people sung “Athalie,” I sat and 
wondered what was the story written on that beautiful, almost 
sad face. It was one of those rare faces which tantalize you 
in the very act of admiring them. There was nothing in it of 
that mature, vigorous, definite beauty of form and complexion 
which a man may calmly observe and criticise in the face of 
a woman ; but a tender uncertainty, a half-suggested and 
shrinking loveliness, which made one vaguely conscious that 
this frail and beautiful smile of nature might suddenly vanish 
from the fine features. It was not that the girl seemed un- 
well, or even in any degree fragile ; but simply that one, in 
looking at her face, could not help regretting that her loveli- 
ness was not less delicate and more pronounced, that there 
was not more life and less sensitiveness in her large violet 
eyes. How beautiful she looked that evening ! The pas- 
sionate music seemed to have called up a flush upon her bright 
complexion, and lent some strange wistfulness to her big eyes ; 
and then,'*when she turned to her companions and smiled, 
her pretty mouth and nut-white teeth might have driven a 
painter mad. Indeed, I know of at least one artist then pres- 
ent who forgot all about Mendelssohn in trying so to fix her 
expression on his memory that he might afterward reproduce 
it on canvas — her expression, her face, and the loose golden- 
brown hair bound down by a band of dark-blue velvet. It 
was two years afterward that accident threw me in the way 
of the Anerleys. I had never forgotten the meaning appar- 
ently written on that sensitive face ; but Dove’s story, as I 
then heard it, differed entirely from wdiat I had imagined. 

“ Why have you come alone this morning ? ” said Will An- 
erley to his companion, as they walked. 

“ You know papa never goes to church,” said the young 
girl. “ And mamma has never gone to hear Mr. Oldham since 
he spoke to her about the Athanasian Creed. I suppose you 
did not hear about that since you came home ? ” 

“ No,” said Will ; though he had an idea why his mother — 
whom Dove had also been taught to call “ mamma ” — feared 
the Athanasian Creed. 


30 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


“ You know,” continued the girl, very seriously, “ how anx- 
ious mamma is because papa won’t go to church, and because 
of his studies and the strange things he says at times ; and 
sometimes she gets very sad about it. It is the only thing 
she is ever sad about ; and when I tell her that there can’t 
be much wrong in what so good a man believes, she only gets 
the sadder, and sometimes cries a little bit. Well, this Sun- 
day morning she and I were talking about it all the way to 
church, and she was very much disturbed. I don’t think she 
had ever paid any attention to the Athanasian Creed before ; 
but on that morning Mr. Oldham read it, and I saw her look 
strangely at him and at the book. Then all at once her face 
got quite white, she shut the book, and without a word to me 
walked out of the church and went straight home.” 

‘‘ And I suppose my father laughed a little, and tried to 
make her believe that he had already constructed some the- 
oretical fire-escape from the dangers with which he was threat- 
ened ? ” 

“ Mr. Oldham came over next day to call upon mamma, 
and he was talking very seriously to her, and making her very 
miserable — indeed, she was crying nearly all the time — when 
papa came into the room.” 

“ Oh ! Was it by the door that Mr. Oldham left ? ” 

“ What do you mean ? Papa stood there, with that curious 
smile he has on his face when he puzzles and perplexes peo- 
ple, you know ; and in a few minutes Mr. Oldham was in a 
terrible rage. I remember distinctly one thing papa said. 

‘ Mr. Oldham,’ he said, with a sort of twinkle in his eye, ‘ I am 
not surprised that you have the Athanasian Creed in your 
service ; for clergymen, like other men, must be allowed the 
use of bad language occasionally. But you should indulge 
yourself privately, and not frighten women when they go to 
pray in your church.’ ” 

“ How very wicked of him ! But then, Dove, Mr. Oldham 
belongs to the next parish ; and he had no business to go 
poaching on Mr. Bexley’s manor.” 

“ And so very anxious she is about you also, Will. She is 
sometimes very sad about papa ; but she can’t help seeing 
what a good man he is. She says to me that you are young, 
and that if you grow up to believe what he believes, you may 
not be quite the same — you know, dear, that is only a feeling 
she has.” 

“ Who wouldn't be orthodox to please such a mother ? ” 
said Will. 

“ And I, too,” said the girl with a touch of color in her 


S/. :MAKY-KIRBY. 


31 


cheek, and in rather a lower voice, ‘‘ I should be grieved to 
think that — that — that you did not care about going to church, 
and that you did not believe as we do.” 

“What should have made you think about all these 
things ? ” asked Anerley, with some astonishment. 

“ Well, when you wrote to us from Jassy, saying you w'ere 
coming home, mamma came to papa and begged him to lock 
up all those dangerous books he is so fond of. ‘ My dear,^ 
he said to her, ‘ Will knows more about such matters than I 
know ; for he has breathed the new atmosphere of these new 
times, whereas I have nothing to help me but reading.' Is 
it true. Will ? ” 

“Is what true ? I tell you, darling, I will be whatever you 
wish me to be ; so don’t distress your mind about it.” 

It was their arrival at the church-door which stopped this 
conversation. They entered, and seated themselves in a tall, 
damp pew, while a small organ was sending its smooth and 
solemn notes through the hushed little building. 

They were not “ engaged,” these two ; but themselves and 
everybody connected with them looked forward to their mar- 
riage as a matter of course. Dove Anerley was the daughter 
of a distant relative of Mrs. Anerley’s, who had gladly 
escaped from a variety of misfortunes by the easy gate-way 
of death ; and Mr. Anerley had adopted the child, brought 
her up, and grown passionately fond of her. He was a man 
of very peculiar notions, which had earned for him among 
the vulgar the charitable title of atheist and materialist ; and 
so this dangerous and wicked person sat down one day be- 
fore his son, when the young man had come home from 
college, and said to him, 

“ Attend to what I am going to say. Will. You have a 
good prospect before you : you have a sound constitution, a 
tolerable education, and plenty of natural ability. I am not 
going to spoil your chances in life by letting you fancy that 
you will have any money at my death — do you understand ? 
I will start you in any profession you choose ; thereafter you 
must fight your own battle, as befits a man ; and whatever I 
leave will go to your mother and to Dove. If you were a 
fool, I should make some provision for you; as it is, I 
won’t.” 

“ Why, you don’t suppose, father, I would rob either Dove 
or my mother of anything you could give them } ” 

That was all that passed between the two men on the sub- 
ject ; and in time it came to be regarded as a matter of 
course that Dove Anerley Wii> to inherit whatever wealth her 


32 


m SILK A TTIRE. 


foster-father should leave behind him, irrespective of the 
provision for his widow. 

Had Will Anerley stayed at home, and been accustomed 
to regard Dove as his sister, he would never have thought of 
marrying her. But even in his boyhood he had been of a 
singularly active and inquiring character ; always anxiqus to 
study new subjects, new scenes, new faces ; never satisfied 
with any achievement as an ultimate result ; and so, his ap- 
prenticeship completed, instead of hiring himself out as an 
assistant to the engineer of some railway or other company, 
and spending a dull life in a dingy office, he threw himself 
boldly upon the world, and went up and down, acquiring 
such knowledge as no man can gain by the study of books. 
Nor was it only in professional directions that his inquiries 
extended. He had caught what is called “ the spirit ’’ of 
these times; was full of vague idealisms, particularly of a 
philanthropic kind ; and was moved by a restless desire to 
trace back to first principles the commonest conditions of 
modern existence. That is a phase through which ^ most 
young men who read books pass. Now and again only do 
we find a man of sufficient strength of character to preserved 
those gentle tendencies against the rough wear and tear of 
travel and its consequent experience. Great, therefore, was 
his delight to have a profession which allowed him to move 
freely about ; and wherever he went the tender remembrance 
of Dove Anerley went with him. 

As for her she had never taken any pains to conceal from 
anybody her fondness for him — a fondness which had grown 
to be a part of her life. He was mixed up in all the finest 
aspirations, he was the creator of all the noblest idealisms, of 
her too delicately sensitive organization. In that supreme 
religious exaltation which is produced by fine music, by 
earnest prayer, or by a beautiful sunset, his was the human 
face towards which, unconsciously to- herself, she looked for 
the divine sympathy and compassion which in such moments 
man begs from the Deity. Even now, as they stood in the 
old oaken pew, and as she sung sweetly and clearly that 
tenderest of hymns — 

“ Abide with me. Fast falls the eventide ; 

The darkness deepens ; Lord, with me abide I 
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee. 

Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me ! ” 

— was she guilty of any great crime in involuntarily making 
him the object of that impassioned ci:v ? Her love -was her 


ST. MARY-KITBY. 


33 


religion, her religion her love ; she knew not how to distin- 
guish between them, and, like the old Romans, had but one 
word to describe this holiest feeling of her nature. 

“ Now, Will,” she said, cheerfully, as the people streamed 
out of the close little building into the sweet-smelling air, 
“ let us have a nice long walk through Woodhill Wood on 
our way home ; it is covered with flowers just now ; and then 
you will tell me why you did not come down last night. 
Everybody expected you, and dinner was as dull as it could 
be without you. The Hepburns were over, you know, and 
Mr. Drysdale, and they came half an hour too soon and sat 
in the drawing-room, and talked of nothing but the number 
of breeding partridges, and the condition of the trout, and 
how they hoped the orchards wouldn’t suffer by this early hot 
weather. Only big John Hepburn — w^ho does nothing in the 
world but shoot and go to hounds, you know — made papa 
laugh very much by stretching his long legs, yawning, and 
saying disconsolately, ‘ Ah, yes, Mr. Anerley, we’re getting 
into the dreary summer months.’ He couldn’t understand 
why papa laughed, and said he had made no joke he was 
aware of.” 

By this time they had walked through the tall green grass 
of the church-yard, had clambered up the hill a bit, and left 
the warm sunshine for the cool shade of the wood. Only 
here and there did the sunlight glimmer down through the 
dense forest of young oak and birch ; but there was no need 
of sunlight to make that tangled carpeting of moss and grass 
and wild-flowers any the brighter. All around them, and as 
far as they could see down the glades between the trees, the 
earth was thick with anemones and great clusters of primroses, 
here and there a few wild hyacinths among patches of ten- 
derly veined wood-sorrel, and everywhere the blush-colored 
cuckoo-flower with its coronet of pale pink buds. Hushed 
and still the place was, except when a jay went screaming 
from one tall tree to another, or some cawing rook flew past 
through the width of fleecy blue-and-white overhead. 

“ I stayed in town, then. Dove, to go to a little supper, and 
there I met Miss Brunei.” 

“ The actress whom everybody is talking about ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You met her privately ? ” 

“ Yes ; why should that astonish you ? ” 

“ Do tell me what she is like — what she said to you — did 
she speak to you t ” 

“ She is a very handsome girl, with splendid hair and eyes. 


34 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


and the most charming manner. What amused me chiefly 
was the half-maternal way in which she talked to me, who 
might have been her father, and the airs of profound experi- 
ence which she quite unconsciously gave herself. Then, all 
the time she was ready to be amused by the tiniest things; 
indeed, it was quite a pleasure to sit near her, and watch the 
comfortable, self-satisfied, almost childish way in which she 
delighted herself with everything.” 

Will spoke quite warmly ; his companion was silent for 
some time afterward. 

“ Why are you so quiet this morning, Dove he asked. 

“ Am I more than usually quiet ? ” she said. 

‘‘ Indeed,” he continued, without taking further notice of 
the matter, “I zaas vexed with myself for not coming down 
last evening. The fact is, I may not have many Saturday 
afternoons down at the old place before I leave again. I am 
thinking of going to Honduras^ — ” 

“ To Honduras ? ” she repeated, rather faintly ; “ why 
should you go to Honduras ? ” 

They want to sink some artesian-wells about — ” 

“ Is there no one in Honduras can sink artesian-wells ? ” 
she asked, with a scarcely concealed pout of vexation. 
“ Your father says you have thrown away plenty of your life 
in going abroad, and that now you should settle here and get 
up a good connection in your own country.” 

“ Although Miss Brunei made me feel old by her efforts 
to play the mother to me, Dove, I am young enough to feel a 
touch of wandering blood stir in me yet.” 

“ Send Miss Brunei to make the artesian-wells ! ” said Dove, 
with a quick flush on her face, and then she broke out laugh- 
ing, partly because she was amused at herself, and partly 
because she was out of humor with him. 

Indeed, nothing delighted him so much as to see a little 
harmless break in the even gentleness of the young girl’s 
manner. It was like the rustling of a piece of tissue-paper, 
or the crumpling of a rose-leaf : the little petulances of which 
she was sometimes guilty were but a source of amusement 
to both of them. 


t.zTZTsr^r js-Ayvn. 


35 


CHAPTER VI. • 

CHESTNUT BANK. 

At last they reached the brow of the hill, and beneath 
them lay St. Mary- Kirby, the sunlight falling lightly on the 
gray church, the white wooden cottages, the broad green 
common, and on two tall-necked swans floating on the glass- 
like mill-head. 

Mr. Anerley’s house — known in the neighborhood as Chest- 
nut Bank — was separated from the common by a large cir- 
cular pond which was fed by a spring, and that again was 
divided from the house by a tall hedge, a row of short limes 
with black stems and young green leaves, and a pretty large 
lawn. Behind the house was a long garden now almost 
smothered in blossom, and along the carriage-drive stood 
rows of lilacs and acacias, with here and there an almond- 
tree, which bore a sprinkling of deep-pink flowers. It was 
an old-fashioned house of red brick, the original builder’s 
intention having clearly been to sacrifice to inside comfort 
outside appearance. When Mr. Anerley, therefore, had one 
side of it partly rebuilt, he had no scruple in adorning the 
drawing-room with French windows, which opened out upon 
the lawn, while the dining-room at the other side' of the 
building had two large bay-windows of the usual height from 
the ground. The house, nevertheless, was very snug and 
comfortable ; and if you looked across the common and the 
pond, and saw it nestled among the thick foliage of lime and 
lilac and birch, you would say it was a very charming little 
country residence. 

When Dove and her companion got down to this sheltered 
little place, they found it, as usual, alive with children. The 
gathering together from all his friends and relations of what- 
ever small boys and girls they could spare was a hobby of 
Mr. Anerley’s. He liked to keep a perpetual children’s party 
going at Chestnut Bank ; and there was not a governess in 
one of his friends’ houses who did not owe to him many a 
grateful holiday. Then this monstrous ogre of a materialist, 
who already smelled of brim-stone in the nostrils of the 
people around, was as careful about the proprieties and go-to- 
bed prayers of the little ones as he was convinced that 
amusement ought to be their chief education. Indeed, he 
once caught the Buttons of the small establishment amusing 


m SILK A TTIRE. 


36 , 


himself and a companion by teaching a little boy to repeat 
some highly improper phrases, and before the youthful joker 
knew where he was he felt the lithe curl of a horsewhip 
round his legs — a sensation he remembered for many a day 
after while gayly polishing his spoons and washing out his 
decanters. 

At this moment a little girl was seated at the piano labori- 
ously playing a hymn-tune possessed of no very recondite 
chords ; while on the lawn in front Mr. Anerley lay at full 
length, a book between his face and the sunshine. Mrs. 
Anerley sat on a low chair beside him, also reading, a large 
deer-hound at her feet ; while two or three more children 
were scampering over the lawn, occasionally “ coming a 
cropper ” over a croquet-hoop. She was a pretty little 
woman with dark-brown hair and eyes — nervous, sensitive, 
and full of the tenderest idealisms — altogether a noble, 
affectionate, and lovable little woman. Her husband was a 
rather tall and spare man, with short, rough gray hair and 
whiskers, an aquiline nose, and gentle gray eyes. He was a 
keen sportsman and a languid student — a man who liked to 
cover his weaknesses of sentiment with a veil of kindly 
humor, and seemed to live very easily and comfortably, con- 
sidering that he was accused of harboring materialism — that 
terrible quicklime, which, according to some profound calcu- 
lators, is about to shrivel up the heavens and the earth, and 
all the gentle humanities which have been growing up through 
so many thousand years. 

“ Halloo, Will ! ” said Mr. Anerley, as the young man 
approached and kissed his mother, “ why didn’t you come 
down last night ? ” 

“ Old Hubbard got me to stay in town with him, that we 
might go to a supper.” 

“ He told me he would likely see you and asked us all to 
walk over to the Place in the evening. Poor man, he has 
never been himself since the lord chamberlain refused to let 
him attend a levee as the Count Von Schonstein. Will, when 
anybody offers you thirty thousand pounds a year, don’t take 
it.” 


“ I won’t, father.” 

“ Hubbard used to be as jolly, happy, and stupid a man as 
you could wish to meet ; and since he got that money left 
him, he has been the most miserable of mortals. I asked 
him yesterday why he did not go among the City people, 
become a councillor, or alderman, or mayor, or get a baro- 
netcy by buying a railway, or do something of the kind ; and 


CHESTNUT BANK. 


V 

he crushed me with his contemptuous silence. He must have 
spent a lot of money in buying his countship, and yet he 
can’t get one of the old families to look at him. If some 
indigent lady does not marry him, or if the Prince of Wales 
does not pick him up as a butt, he will die of spleen.” 

“ And he is a good sort of fellow, too,” said Will. “ It is 
a shame to invent stories about his frantic efforts to get 
among the aristocracy, as they’re doing in town just now. I 
think it’s one’s duty to cheer him up a bit. Fancy him living 
all by himself in that great house — a man who can no more 
read than he can shoot, or fish, or ride. By-the-way, he tum- 
bled off his horse in the Park on Friday morning, and nearly 
knocked over a little girl of Lady Charlton’s, who was out for 
the first time ; and I had half promised to introduce him to 
Lady Charlton. I suppose he’ll decline now, after making 
an exhibition of himself.” 

“ He won’t, you’ll see. My poor Hubbard would kiss the 
ground on which Lady Charlton treads, although I suppose 
he hasn’t seen her yet.” 

“ I think you are two spiteful wretches,” said Dove, ‘‘ lying 
there, on such a beautiful day, and laughing at one of your 
own friends. I think the count a very nice gentleman, 
and — ” 

“ And he brought you down a coronet of blue pearls the 
other day,” said Mrs. Anerley, with a smile. 

“ Why, I’ve never seen that wonderful head-gear you were 
talking about. Dove,” said Will. “Do go and put it on 
now.” 

Dove was nowise loath ; she knew as well as anybody how 
pretty she looked in her new article of attire. In a few min- 
utes she returned, and stood at the open glass door, the 
creepers on the front of the house framing her in as if she 
were a picture. This head-dress — which I cannot describe 
scientifically — the count had purchased abroad; and, had 
he gone over Europe, he could not have found anything to 
suit Dove’s face and hair so well. There was first a simple 
tiara of blue pearls fixed on a gleaming blue band ; then 
there were one or two loose strings of the pearls taken 
back to bind down a soft, thick swathe of white mus- 
lin which came down under the chin and encompassed 
the pretty head. The blue strings among the light- 
brown hair, the thick, soft, snowy circle round the slightly 
flushed face, the pleased, self-conscious eyes, and the half- 
smiling mouth — altogether they formed such a bright, soft, 
charming' little picture that Mr. Anerley cried out. 


3 * 


m SILK A TTIRE, 


“ Come here at once, Dove, and kiss me, or I shall believe 
you’re a fairy ! ” 

And when he had his arm round lier neck, he said, 

“ I expected every moment to see you fly right away up 
into the air, and then we should have seen no more of you 
than if you were a little white pigeon quite lost up in the 
blue.” 

“ But I should come down again, papa, when I wanted 
something to eat.” 

“ Or your glass of port-wine after dinner, eh } ” 

They had dinner early at Chestnut Bank on Sundays, to 
let the servants get to afternoon church. And on Sundays, 
also, all the children dined down-stairs ; so that they had 
quite a fine party to-day when they assembled round the 
table. Dove had seen that all the little boys’ and girls’ cos- 
tume was correct, had got fresh flowers for the table, and 
wore herself a pretty white dress with blue ribbons — adding 
considerably to the brightness and liveliness of the family 
gathering. 

“ Had you a good sermon to-day. Dove } ” asked Mr 
Anerley. 

“ Yes, papa ; but I don’t like Mr. Oldham.” 

She had never forgiven the good man for his too great 
anxiety about the Athanasian Creed. 

“ By-the-way, mamma,” continued Mr. Anerley, don’t let 
me forget to tell you what I was reading in the papers this 
morning — although it will shock you, I know. They are go 
ing to secularize the Church.” 

Mrs. Anerley looked up — vaguely conscious that something 
dreadful was going to happen. 

“The Ecclesiastical Commissioners are to be abolished; 
the churches are to be turned into school- rooms ; and the 
clergymen may, if they like, remain and be school-masters. 
If they don’t, they must walk out.” 

“ Quite true, mother,” continued Will, taking up the won- 
drous tale ; “ and the Government means to cut up the en- 
tire ecclesiastical property, the glebe-lands, and what not, 
into small farms for the use of the poor people all over the 
three kingdoms.” 

“The prime minister himself says it is useless trying to save 
the soul of a man until you give him a soul ; and says that no 
man has a soul who is not properly fed and educated.” 

“He says no man can have a soul,” repeated Will, “who 
has less than twenty shillings a v;eek ; and until that minimum 
is readied, the clergymen must turn farm-bailiffs or teachers^ 


CHESTNUT BANK. 


zr 


After then, the people may think about getting up churches 
once more» All the bishops are to be provided with a home 
in the Dramatic College at Maybury ; the archbishops, in con- 
sideration of their inexperience of the world — ” 

“ They’re only laughing at you, mamma,” said Dove. 

“ And a pretty example to set the children,” said Mrs. An- 
erley. “Whoever laughs at mamma is sent up-stairs to bed 
at once.” 

“ Dove,” said Will, suddenly, “ do you know where you are 
going to-morrow } ” 

“ No.” 

“ Up to town. We’re all going, except those young people 
who must remain in expectation of what we shall bring them 
when we return. You shall see, Dove — what shall you not 
see ? I have always promised to give you a good dose of 
town, and now you shall have it. You shall sit up in a wire 
cage in the House of Commons, and look over the heads of 
the reporters on the drowsy gentlemen beneath. You shall 
see Mr. Gladstone, lying back, wiih his head in the air ; you 
shall see Mr. Disraeli, apparently going to cry ; and Lord 
Stanley, with his hat on the back of his head, and his hands in 
his pockets, looking as if he had just lost a bet.” 

“ I shouldn’t care a bit about one of them,” said Dove. 

“ Then you shall go to another wire cage at Evans’s ; and 
you shall see a row of pale little boys in black, with their hands 
behind them, singing to rows of decorous gentlemen ; or you 
may light upon the audience in its idiotic stage, and find them 
applauding Philistinic politics over their raw chops. Then — 
and listen mamma ! — the programme begins with a box, to- 
morrow evening, at the theatre, where Miss Anine Brunei 

is playing her Juliet.” 

“ The new actress. Will ? ” asked his father. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Ah ! now you promise us something worth seeing 1 ” said 
Dove, with glad eyes. “ And oh, mamma. Will knows Miss 
Brunei, and has spoken to her, and says that she is — ” 

“Lovely,” she was about to say; but she added “pretty,” 
moderating her enthusiasm. 

“ Yes, I think she is rather pghetty,” said Will ; at which 
all the children laughed. “ But you’ll judge for yourself to- 
morrow night.” 

After dinner, and when .the children had received a tiny 
sip of port-wine along with their fruit, Mr. Anerley proposed 
to Will that they should smoke outside ; and so a small table, 
some decanters and glasses, and a few chairs were carried 


40 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


out, and placed under a great cedar-tree, which was now be- 
ginning to get a soft green velvet over its dark shelves of 
branches. 

“Dove,” whispered Mr. Anerley, “go and ask mamma if 
I mayn’t have my song to-day ? ” 

“ But, papa, it’s Sunday.” 

“Tell mamma to take all the children into the mead- 
ow with some bread for the pony. They won’t hear it, 
then.” 

This was accordingly done ; and then Dove, opening the 
French window of the drawing-room, ‘so that the music might 
pass out to the gentlemen underneath the cedar, sung, very 
prettily indeed, Mr. Anerley’s particular song — “ Where the 
bee sucks.” Her voice was not a powerful one, but it was 
very tender and expressive ; and there was a quaint softness 
in that purring habit of hers which made her sing, “ Meghily, 
meghily shall I sleep now.” 

And when she went outside to Mr. Anerley, and knelt down 
beside him, to ask him if he was satisfied, he put his arm 
round her waist and said, with a smile, 

“ Meghily, meghily shall I sleep now, my darling. I should 
have been miserable all the afternoon if I had not heard my 
own song. I believe I wrote it. Dove.” 

“ You mustn’t sleep now, papa,” she said, blushing a little 
over her bad pronunciation, “ for you said we were going to 
walk over to the Place this afternoon.” 

“ So I did ; and we will start presently,” 


CHAPTER VII. 

BALNACLUITH PLACE. 

“ It often surprises me,” said Mr. Anerley, as the little 
party made its way across the common of St. Mary-Kirby in 
the warm evening glow, “ that Hubbard cares ~to keep up ac- 
quaintance with us. We always dislike people who have 
known us in ill-fortune, or penury, or great depression. I 
even hate the flavor of cigars that I have smoked when re- 
covering from sickness ; I must have others when I get quite 
well again. Now, Hubbard, with his deer-park, and harriers, 
and thirty thousand a year, ought to be disgusted with people 
who knew him as a tea-broker.” - 


SALlsrACLUITH PLACE. 


41 


“ Don’t be so ill-natured about Mr. Hubbard, dear,” said 
his wife, with a smile. “ I’m sure he is a big, soft, stupid, 
well-meaning sort of man.” 

Mr. Anerley was not quite so certain about the softness and 
good intentions of the count ; but he charitably forbore to 
speak. Dove and Will, who had stood for a few seconds on 
the bridge to watch the two swans come sailing towards them 
in expectation of crumbs — cleaving the burnished gold of the 
mill-head into long purple lines — now came up; and they 
walked away from the still little village, along the green 
lanes, until they drew near the Place. 

It was a great, sombre, fine old building, which had figured 
in history under another name — a large building of gloomy 
red brick, with innumerable mullioned windows, and peaks 
and stone griffins — a building that had here and there grown 
gray and orange with the lichens and rain and wind of many 
years. It stood upon a high terrace on the side of a hill slop- 
ing down to the river, which ran along the valley to St. Mary- 
Kirby ; and at this point the stream — a line of flashing gold 
winding through the soft green — divided the terrace and lawn 
of the house from the great park opposite, with its magnifi- 
cent elms and its small close-lying herd of deer. Round 
about the Place, too, were some fine trees, on a particular 
cluster of which a colony of rooks had established themselves 
at some by-gone time. Altogether a noble and handsome 
old building was this Balnacluith Place, for which the Garf 
Von Schonstein had — not without a purpose — expended a 
large sum of money, on his accession to fortune. Alas ! the 
influence of the Place had fled the moment he bought it. 
The brilliant gentlemen and lovely ladies whom the count had 
pictured to himself dining in the great hall, or walking in the 
broad park, never appeared. The grand old house had lost 
its mesmeric power; and no longer drew down from London 
those brilliant parties of wits, and beaux, and belles who once 
— as the count had informed himself — held their merry revels 
there. He had sparkling wines at his command ; lights he 
could have in abundance ; when he chose, the dining-hall was 
brilliant with plate, and flowers, and fruit — but the ladies and 
gentlemen whom he had mentally invited stayed away. And 
he was not the man to go out into the highways and by-ways, 
and gather in beggars to his feast. He had aimed at a par- 
ticular kind of guests : they had not come ; but there was yet 
hope of their coming. 

When the Anerleys drew near, they perceived the figure of 
a man walking solitarily up and down the stone terrace in 


43 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


front of the house. His only companions were the couchant 
lions at each end of the terrace, which had kept guard there, 
over the few steps, for nearly a couple of centuries. 

“ It is Hubbard himself,” said Mr. Anerley. 

“ He looks like the ghost of some dead owner of the house, 
come back to take his accustomed stroll,” said Will. 

“ At all events, he is smoking,” said Dove. 

When the count perceived his visitors, he threw away his 
cigar, and came down to meet them, saluting them with florid 
and formal courtesy. 

“ No need to ask how you are. Miss Anerley — charming as 
ever. Persuaded our friend Whll to give up his wandering 
life, eh ? ” 

This was the count’s great joke : it had never been known 
to fail — at least in rendering Dove very uncomfortable. 

“ What a fine evening ! Look how beautiful the trees are 
down there ! ” he continued, allowing his eye to roam over 
the prospect before him in innocent pride — looking, indeed, 
as if he thought that God had prepared the sunset simply to 
light up Count Schonstein’s park. 

It is a fine park ; and a beautiful evening, too,” said Mr. 
Anerley. It is a pity that most beautiful things make one 
sad.” 

“ That is because w'e don’t possess them,” said the count, 
laughing : he was of a practical turn of mind. 

The count turned to the ladies, and — as was his universal 
custom when he wished to be polite — he insisted on their 
going inside and having a glass of wine. 

“Look here, Anerley,” he said, when both of them de- 
clined, “you must come and try some port I got down last 
night — bought it at the sale of Major Benson’s cellar on Thurs- 
day — ten pounds a dozen, and cheap at the money.” 

“ If it was sent home last night, I’d rather not,” said Mr. 
Anerley, with a smile. 

“ I didn’t mean that particular wine,” replied the count, un- 
blushingly. “Or will you all stay and dine with me ? Do; 
I dine at eight.” 

This was what is bluntly called a lie ; the count — except 
when circumstances compelled him — never forsook his old 
dinner-hour of five. He had, in fact, only begun his second 
cigar after dinner when the Anerleys arrived. But the count 
probably fancied that a mere courtesy-lie wasn’t much, and 
trusted to his visitors declining the invitation, which they did. 

“ I would rather go down and see the deer,” said Dove. 
“ Didn’t you say you had some roe-deer amon.g them ? ” 


BALNACLl/ITH PLACE. 


43 


“Those I bad brought from Schonstein?” said the count, 
rather pompously. “They all died, as Hermann said they 
would. But it was an experiment, you know. I must get 
Hermann, if we’re going into the park; the deer won’t come 
to me.” 

He went into the house for a few moments, and reai> 
peared, followed by the keeper, a splendid-looking fellow, 
with a brown, handsome face, great shoulders, and long legs 
encased in rough top-boots. This Hermann had been the 
head-keeper, chief forester, and what not, of Schonstein when 
Mr Hubbard bought the place ; and on the principle of the 
Portuguese navigators, who brought home men and women 
from the Guinea coast to prove that they had been there, the 
count carried the big Schwarzwalder over to England wiih- 
him as a specimen of what he had purchased abroad. Un- 
like most of his Schwarzwald brethren, Hermann knew not 
a word of English ; Hubbard knew not a word of German; 
and for many a month after his expatriation the efforts of 
master and man to understand each other formed a constant 
comedy at the Place. In one or two cases Mr. Anerley was 
besought to act as interpreter; and even now nothing de- 
lighted the stalwart, good-natured Black-Forester so much as 
a long talk in his native language with any of his master’s 
guests who were complaisant enough to humor him. 

“ Hermann,” said the count, loudly, to let his visitors know 
that now he could support his rank by talking in the language 
of the country which gave it him, “das Fraulein wunscht die 
— die Re he zu sehen — ” 

“ The Rehe are all died, Herr Graf,” said the sturdy keeper, 
who would not have his native tongue burlesqued. 

“ Ich meine die — die — the deer that are there ! ” said the 
count, sharply and hotly, “ und sie miissen, wissen Sie, etwas 
— etwas — eh — ah — etwas Speise — ” 

“ Futter, nicht wahr ? ” suggested Will, looking gravely at 
Dove. 

“ Yes, yes, of course ; the fellow knows well enough. I 
mean to get the deer to come up to him.” 

“They will come without nothing, Herr Graf,” said the 
tall forester. 

They crossed the small iron bridge leading from the lawn 
over the river into the park. The deer were for the most 
part lying down, underneath the shadow of three large oaks, 
one or two only still standing and nibbling the grass. When 
our party drew near, however, the whole herd rose' and re- 
treated 2L little, while one of the bucks came proudly to the 


44 


m SILJ^ A TTIRM, 


front and stood, with his small head and tall horns erect 
watching the approach of the strangers. 

“ Will you come with me, Fraulein ? ” said Hermann ; and 
Dove went forward with him, leaving the others behind. 

No sooner had the keeper thus made himself distinctly 
visible, than two or three of the does came timidly forward, 
alternating a little quiet canter wdth a distrustful pause, and 
at last one of them came quite up to the keeper, and looked 
rather wistfully at his hand with her large, soft brown eyes. 

“ This is her I call Ldmmchen^^ said Hermann, stroking 
the small neck of the hind, “ she is so tame. And there is 
Leopard over there, with the spots on him. I speak to them 
in German; they know it all the same.’’ 

One of the bucks now seemed also desirous to approach ; 
looking about him in a sheepish way, however, as if it were 
beneath his dignity for him to follow the example of the 
women of his tribe. 

“ Komm her, du furchtsamer Kerl ! ” said Hermann, going 
forward, and taking hold of him by one of his broad, palmated 
horns ; “ he is a fine deer, is he not ? Look at his horns and 
his bright colors. He is better than for to be in a park, like 
the cows. He should be in the wcfods.” 

He took a piece of brown bread from his pocket and gave 
it to Dove, who held it to the small mouth of the buck, where 
it was speedily nibbled up. Then she stroked his neck, and 
looked at his big, apprehensive eyes ; and then they went back 
to the group whom they had left. 

“ Miss Anerley,” said the count, “won’t you persuade those 
people to go inside and have some tea ? I ought to be able 
to give you good tea, you know.” 

It was when the count wished to be very modest and com- 
plaisant indeed that he joked about his old calling. 

They went inside, and sat in a large, sombre, oaken-pan- 
elled room, with the fast fading light coldly falling through 
the diamond panes of the tall and narrow windows. Then 
lamps were brought in, and tea ; and they sat talking and 
chatting for nearly an hour. 

When they went out upon the terrace again to go home, 
there was a pale moonlight lying over the lawn, hitting sharply 
here and there on the stone mullions of the windows, and 
touching grayly and softly a thin mist which had settled down 
upon the park. It was a beautiful, still night ; and as Dove 
and Will went home, they allowed Mr. and Mrs. Anerley to 
get on so far in front of them, that at last they were only vis- 
ible as dark specks on the white road. 


BALNA CL UlTH FLA CE. 


45 

For some time they walked on in silence ; and then Will 
said, carelessly, 

“ Will you go up to town with me to-morrow morning. Dove, 
and I’ll devote the whole day to you ? Or will you come up 
with my father in the afternoon ? ” 

She did not answer him ; and then, in a second or two, when 
he looked down, he was surprised to find her eyes full of 
tears. 

“ What ever is the matter. Dove ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, Will,” she said, turning the beautiful, wet eyes up to 
his face — and they were very beautiful in the soft moonlight — 
“ I have been wanting to speak to you all day, and I have 
been so afraid. I wanted to ask you not to — not to go to 
Honduras : won’t you give it up, if I ask you. Will 1 ” 

“Why should that trouble you. Dove.? If I do go, it will 
only be a short trip ; and then it will be of great advantage 
to me in this way, that if — ** 

“But, Will dear, listen to me for a moment,” she said, 
with a piteous entreaty in her voice. “I know why you have 
always to go away from England, although you have been too 
kind-hearted to speak of it — I know it quite well ; it’s because 
I’m to have the money that belongs to you, and you have to 
fight your way all by yourself, and leave your family year af- 
ter year, and all because of me ; and I won’t have the money. 
Will — I hate it — and it’s making me more miserable every 
day.” 

“ Darling, don’t distress yourself like that,” he said, sooth- 
ingly, for she was now crying very bitterly. “ I assure you, 
you mistake the whole affair. I won’t go to Honduras, if you 
like — I’ll do anything you ask me. But really. Dove, I go 
abroad merely because, as I believe, one of my ancestors must 
have married a gypsy. I like to wander about, and see peo- 
ple, and live differently, and get generally woke up to what’s 
going on in the world. Bless you, my darling, if it were 
money I wanted, I ought to have remained at home from the 
beginning. My father has only done what any well-thinking 
man would have done in his place ; and you mustn’t fret your- 
self about such a trifle — ” 

“ I knew you would never acknowledge I was robbing you, 
Will ; but I am. And all the time you were in Russia, and 
in Canada, whenever there was a heavy storm blowing, I used 
to lie awake at night and cry ; because I knew it was I who 
had sent you away out there, and I thought you might be in 
a ship and in danger — all through me. And this morning, 
when you — when you said you were going to Honduras, I 


46 


IN SILK ATTIRE, 


made up my mind then to go to papa to-morrow morning, 
and ril tell him I won’t have the money. I’ll go away from 
you altogether rather, and be a governess — ” 

“ Now, now. Dove, don’t vex me and yourself about noth- 
ing,” he said to her, kindly. “ I won’t go to Honduras.” 

“You won’t.?” 

“ I won’t.” 

She raised her head a little bit — in an entreating way — and 
the compact was sealed. 

“I’ll tell you what I shall do,” he said, taking the hand 
that lay on his arm into his own. “ I will stay at home, get 
myself into some regular work, take a small house somewhere 
near here, and then you’ll come and be my wife, won’t you. 
Dove ? ” 

There was a slight pressure on his hand : that was her only 
answer. They walked on for some little time in silence ; and 
then, catching a glimpse of her face, he stopped to dry the 
tears from her cheeks. While engaged in that interesting oc- 
cupation, she said to him, with a little smile, 

“It looks as if /had asked Will — doesn’t it?” 

“ I don’t think so,” he said. 

“ It wouldn’t matter if I did, would”* it ? ” she asked, simply. 
“ For you know how fond I am of you, Will.” 

They talked of that and a good many other relevant matters 
until they had reached St. Mary-Kirby. They paused for a 
moment on the bridge — to look at the dark shadows about the 
mill and the white sheen of the moonlight on the water j and 
then she whispered, timidly, 

“ When shall we be married, Will ? ” 

“We shall be maghied whenever you like, Dove,” he said, 
lightly and cheerfully. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

JULIET. 

By the time the “ playing-in” farce was over, the house was 
quite full. That morning’s papers had written in such a fash- 
ion about the new triumph of Miss Brunei on Saturday night, 
that long before the box-office was closed there was not a reg- 
istered place in the building which had not been seized upon. 
Will foresaw what was likely to happen, and had asked Mr, 
Melton to secure him a box. 


JULIET. 


When the little party drove from the Langham — Will’s 
rooms in town scarcely offering them the accommodation they 
required — Dove was in high spirits. It was the first time she 
had gone anywhere with the young gentleman opposite her 
since their “ engagement,” and she already felt that comfort- 
able sense of extended possession which married people enjoy. 
She took her seat in the brougham, which Count Schonstein 
had kindly placed at their disposal, with a new and fluttering 
pleasure ; she already imagined herself to have the importance 
and the claims to attention of a wife ; and she accepted Will’s 
little courtesies in this light, and made herself very happy over 
the altered aspect of their relations. 

When her opera-cloak had been hung up, and her tiny bou- 
quet, opera-glass, and bill placed daintily before her, the grace- 
ful little woman ensconced herself in the corner and timidly 
peeped round the curtain. She was dressed in a very faint- 
blue silk, with sharp, broad lines of white about it ; and over 
and through her rippling brown hair ran the strings of blue 
pearls which Count Schonstein had given her. Not even 
Mrs. Anerley, who saw her often enough, could forbear to 
look with a tender pride upon the girl ; and as for Mr. Anerley, 
whose tall, upright figure was hidden in the shadow of the box, 
he would fain have sat down beside his adopted daughter, 
with his arm round her waist, and forgotten all about what 
they had come to see. 

The orchestra finished its overture, chiefly composed of the 
delicate “Sonnambula” music, and the curtain rose. Dove 
was disappointed at not seeing Miss Brunei, and paid but lit- 
tle attention to the preliminary scenes. 

Suddenly there was an extraordinary commotion through- 
out the house, and a burst of that fine, strong, thunderous 
music which artists love to hear — and then Dove saw advance 
a girlish-looking creature with a calm, somewhat pale, and 
interesting face, and beautiful black hair. She was only girl- 
ish in the slightness of her figure : there was an artistic com- 
pleteness in her motions and a self-possession in her bearing 
which gave her something of a queenly look. She wore a 
magnificent white-satin dress, the train of which lay in splen- 
did masses behind her; and down over this white and gold 
fell a black-lace veil, partly hiding the rich hair, and enclosing 
the clear, beautiful dark face. Dove was spell-bound by that 
face. It somehow suggested Italy to her, and blue skies, and 
music, and the passionate artistic warmth of the South ; nor 
was the illusion destroyed by the low chest-voice with which 
the girl replied to the questions of Lady Capulet. And from 


4S 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


that moment Dove thought no more of Miss Brunei and Will’s 
friend. She was only Juliet, and Dove followed her sad story 
with an aching heart and a trembling lip. 

During the matchless balcony scene, Will saw this intense 
sympathetic emotion growing upon the girl. I believe it is 
considered to be the proper thing for young ladies to be able 
to turn round and smile compassionately to each other, when 
the tragic sadness on the stage is making the women in the 
pit sob bitterly, and raising great lumps in the throats of men. 
It is a pretty accomplishment, in its way ; and may be indica- 
tive' of other qualities which these young persons are accused of 
possessing. Dove’s emotional tendencies had never been edu- 
cated, however ; and in this balcony-scene, as I say, she watched 
the lovers with a painful interest, which wrote its varying story 
every moment on her face. The theatre was still as death. The 
scarcely uttered tendernesses of Juliet were heard as distinctly 
as if they had been breathed into one’s ear ; and the eyes (k 
the audience drank in the trembling lights and shadows of 
her girlish passion with an unconscious delight and admira- 
tion. The abandonment of her affection, the reluctant dec- 
larations, the coy shrinkings, and piteous, playful, tender 
apologies were so blended as to make the scene an artistic 
marvel ; and Dove sat “ laughin’ maist like to greet,” as the 
old Scotch song says. Indeed, she scarcely knew whether to 
laugh or cry with delight — the absolute delight — which this 
piece of true art gave her ; and wheti at last Juliet had forced 
herself to the parting — 

“ ’Tis almost morning ; I would have thee gone : 

And yet no farther than a wanton’s bird ; 

Who lets it hop a little from her hand, 

Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, 

And with a silk thread plucks it back again. 

So loving-jealous of his liberty ” — 

when, lingeringly and sadly, she had withdrawn from the bal- 
cony, Dove rose suddenly, and with a half-choked sob in her 
voice, said, 

“ Oh, Will, I should like so much to see her — and — 
and — ” 

“ Kiss her,” she had nearly said ; but thinking it might be 
ridiculous, she stopped. 

“ It’s against the rules. Dove,” said Will, with a smile. 
“ Besides, that isn’t Miss Brunei you’ve been looking at ; that 
is Juliet. Both are very nice ladies; but they are quite un- 
Uke each other.” 


JULIET, 


49 


Dove was terribly disappointed. She would like to have 
declared her conviction that Miss Brunei was Juliet — that 
she had every bit the same tenderness, and sweetness, and 
loveliness , but she was afraid her enthusiasm might make 
Mrs. Anerley laugh at her, and so she bore the rebuff 
patiently. 

Presently, however, some one tapped at the box-door ; and 
the next moment Will was introducing the manager, Mr. 
Melton, to his companions. 

“My young friend here,” said Will to Melton, while 
Dove’s pretty face assumed an extra tinge of color, “ has 
been so much struck by Miss Brunei, that she would like to 
go and thank her personally.” 

Now Mr. Melton was in a very good humor. The house 
was crammed ; there was almost no “ paper ” in it ; and the 
prospect of a good run through the popularity of his new ac- 
quisition had warmed up his impassive nature into quite a 
pronounced geniality. 

“ Then you ought to introduce the young lady to Miss 
Brunei,” said Mr. Melton, blithely. “ If you like. I’ll take 
you round at the end of the act, when Miss Brunei will have 
a little ‘wait’ ” 

“ Will you go. Dove ? ” asked Will. 

“ Yes,” she said, timidly. 

Just as the curtain fell upon the scene in Friar Laurence’s 
cell, at the end of the second act, Mr. Melton conducted Dove 
and Will down a tortuous little stone stair into a narrow pas- 
sage, from which they entered into the wings. A noisy and 
prolonged recall was thundering throughout the house, and 
Miss Brunei was being led on to the stage by Romeo to receive 
renewed plaudits. When she returned and passed under the 
glare of the- jets in one of the entrances. Will went forward 
to shake hands with her. 

“ I have to congratulate you again,” he said. 

“ Thank you,” she said, simply. 

There had been a pleased smile of welcome in ’her eyes 
when they met ; and yet it seemed to him that there was a 
strange, intense expression in her look which was not natural 
to it. Once or twice before he had seen her in the same 
circumstances ; and invariably this unconscious, mesmeric in- 
tensity was present in her eyes. He explained it to himself 
by supposing that the emotional idealism of her assumed char- 
acter had not quite died out of her yet. 

Then she turned and saw Dove standing with Mr. Melton. 
Will begged to introduce his “ sister ; ” and the brief ceremony 


50 


IN SILK A TIL RE. 


was sufficiently singular. For a moment the dark, lambent 
eyes of Miss Brunei were fixed upon the fair young girl with 
a sort of hesitating look — an inquiring, apprehensive look, 
which Will never forgot ; then all at once she frankly extended 
her hand. Dove, a little frightened, approached and shook 
hands with her. 

“ Mr. Anerley has spokon to me about you,” said Annie 
Brunei; and Dove was conscious that the dark-haired girl 
before her knew her secret. 

How singular it was to hear herself addressed in those low, 
rich tones which a few minutes ago were addressing Romeo 
in the moonlight I Dove almost felt herself enchanted ; and 
could have believed at that moment that she herself belonged 
to the old, sad, sweet play, which seems to contain everything 
that was ever uttered about man’s love and woman’s devotion. 

“ I must go down to. my dressing-room now,” said Miss 
Brunei to Dove. “ Will you come with me, if you are curious 
to see the place } I will send some one round with you to 
your box afterward.” 

Will saw that Dove would like to go, so he settled the pro- 
posal by telling her not to be in Miss Brunei’s way ; and then 
he and Melton returned to the front of the house. 

Dove was now conducted by her companion down into the 
theatrical Hades which lies beneath the stage. She saw the 
figures of the carpenters gliding, like the spirits of the damned, 
through the dusky twilight ; she saw the cumbrous wood-work, 
the machinery of the traps, and what not, rendered faintly 
visible by the glimmering jets ; and then she was led into the 
bright little room which was appropriated to Miss Brunei’s 
use. 

“ You may go home if you like, now', Sarah,” said the latter 
to her dresser. “ Mrs. Christmas is in the theatre, and will 
be here presently.” 

“ Thank you, miss,” said the tidy little woman, who imme- 
diately hurried away home to get supper ready for her hus- 
band, a gas-man in the theatre. 

It was the best single dressing-room in the place; but it 
was not a very grand apartment. There was, however, a full- 
length mirror at one end, wffiich had been privately presented 
(with a hint as to its destination) by Count Schonstein to Mr. 
Melton ; and the manager had thought that the least hecouXd 
do was to newly paper the little chamber. At present it was 
in a state of confusion which largely excited Dove’s curiosity. 
The implements of stage effect were displayed before her, on 
the floor, on the table, and on the marble slab underneath the 


JULIET. 


51 


smaller looking-glass ; and all around lay or hung divers ar- 
ticles of costume and ornament, the peculiarly bright materials 
and prominent decorations of which were very new to her. 
But it needed only a glance at Juliet’s clear, beautiful face to 
see that she required very little “ making-up,” nor was Dove 
less surprised to find that the lace and similar little delicacies 
of the. young actress’s costume were real and valuable. 

“ My mother taught me to make all these things myself,” 
she explained to Dove. “ She was very particular about them ; 
and used to say that when one meant to spend one’s life in a 
profession, one ought to have as much pride in wearing real 
lace on the stage as out-of-doors.” 

“And do you mean to spend all your life in your profes- 
sion } ” asked Dove, timidly. 

“ Yes ; why not ? ” said the girl, with a smile. 

“ I — I don’t know,” stammered Dove, blushing dreadfully. 

“ Come, be frank with me,” said Annie Brunei, taking the 
girl’s hand in hers. “ Don’t you think it very wicked to be 
an actress ? ” 

Dove was now forced to explain herself. 

“ I don’t, indeed,” she said. “ But I couldn’t help thinking 
that you are too young and — and too pretty — to waste all 
your life in a theatre.” 

“Oh, nonsense!” said Miss Brunei, laughing in a moth- 
erly sort of way. “ I live only in the theatre. I find my life 
wasted whenever I go out of it, and spend my time in amus- 
ing myself like a child. I have nothing to interest me but 
the theatre, nothing to live for out of it ; and it is only when 
I get into the spirit of my part that I feel myself all throbbing 
over with a delicious life. You cannot understand that ? 
Why, my very fingers tingle with enjoyment; I get quite a 
new warmth w’ithin me ; and many a time I can’t help laugh- 
ing or crying quite naturally when the scene suggests it. I’m 
sure no one in front has half the delight in a play that I have. 
I scarcely see the wings, and the prompter, and the scene- 
shifters ; I forget the abominable smell of gas ; and I should 
like to keep on the character forever — if it is one that pleases 
me. When I get a new and unpleasant part, I hate acting. 

I feel as if I were doing exactly what Mrs. Christmas taught 
me ; and that the people must be laughing at me ; and I be- 
come afraid of the critics, and hope that I sha’n’t forget the 
cues.” 

Here the call-boy came running to the door ; Juliet was 
wanted for the second scene. She hastily departed ; and 
Dove was left alone. 


“ How very friepdly she must be with Wimcfo. receive me 
so kindly, and talk to me so frankly ! ” thoiMt Dove, when 
it was her own pretty face that had won-l^^n the young 
actress’s heart. ’ ' . 

The scene in Capulet’s house is a short one, and Annie 
Brunei was speedily back in her room. She brought with her 
Mrs. Christmas ; and the bright, white-haired little woman 
made a pert courtesy when she was introduced, and said how 
sorry she was to hear that the young lady had been sitting 
alone. The next moment she was running into a series of 
ludicrous stories about the mistakes inexperienced people had 
made in trying to find their way about the theatre by them- 
selves ; and it must be confessed that her anecdotes were 
sometimes so very humorous that it was as well that only 
ladies heard them. 

“ And something of the same kind,” she continued, with 

her merry little eyes sparkling, “ happened to Mr. , the 

celebrated author, you know, with Nelly Featherstone, who is 
in this theatre at the present moment — or ought to be. You 
know it was a benefit night. Miss — Anerley ? — yes. Miss 
Anerley ; and there was a general hurry-scurry, and he had 
been left in the wings. He asked a super how he should get 
to Mr. Crimp (and it was his benefit, my dear, and he had 
several friends with him, all drinking in his room), and the 
man told him to go to the first dressing-room on the right 
when he went down-stairs. But his right was our left, as you 
know, my dear ; and there were in the first dressing-room on 
the left Nelly Featherstone and her sister, and another girl, 
all dressing as hard as ever they could for the burlesque. 
Nelly was Perseus, and. before she had got on her tights, she 
was in — in a transition state, shall we say, my dear ? ” Here 
the merry little woman laughed until the tears ran down her 

withered gray cheeks. ‘‘ And up to the door goes Mr. , 

and opens it without thinking. Oh, Lor ! what a fright he 
must have got ! Nelly screamed at the pitch of her voice, 
and fell into a chair, and screamed again ; and her sister 
Jeanie {she had some clothes on) ran at the poor man, and 
said something very offensive, and slammed the door in his 
face. Poor fellow ! he nearly died of shame ; and Nelly’s 
scream told everybody of his blunder, and Crimp and all his 
friends shrieked over it — but not before him, my dear, for he 
was much too celebrated a man to be laughed at. Only he 
sent her next day an explanation and an apology through the 
manager, and as beautiful a bouquet as ever you saw ; and he 
got a friend of his to write a lovely notice of her in the Viiir- 


yULIET. 


S3 


nal itself, wheft-61d Yellowjaw’s piece was — Mercy, gracious 
me ! There’s tbei call-boy again ! Run, Miss Annie ! ” 

Good-bye,” •^said Miss Brunei, hurriedly, shaking hands 
with Dove. “ I should like you to come often and see me.” 

She bent over her for a moment, kissed her lightly, and 
left. 

“ You know what that means ? ” said Mrs. Christmas to 
Dove. That means that she will speak to no one this night 
again until her part is finished. All the theatre knows her 
way, and humors her. It’s when the genius is working on 
her — that’s what I say ; and I know it, for I’ve seen it in her 
mother. There was the sweetest woman you ever heard of : 
not very friendly, miss, you know, in the way of talking of 
her own affairs — and it’s nothing I could ever make out 
about her life before I knew her — but the sweetest creature ! 
the tenderest creature ! And she was such a rare good 
actress, too — but nothing like her daughter. She knew that, 
and used to sit and talk for hours — it was the only thing she 
would talk about — over what she expected Miss Annie to be. 
And once she said to me, with tears running down her face, 

‘ I pray every night that my litHe girl may be kept always an 
actress, and that she may never look for happiness outside 
her own profession.’ But it’s a shame to keep you here, 
miss, if you’ve never seen Miss Annie’s Juliet. She said I 
was to take you back to your box when you wished to go.” 

So once more Dove passed through the gloomy region, and 
worked her way upward to the light of the theatre. Her 
friends were astonished at her long absence, but they were too 
much enthralled by what was going on upon the stage to 
speak to her. And again Dove looked down upon that 
queenly little person with whom she had been talking, and 
could not explain to herself the strange sensation she then 
experienced. It seemed as if her visit to the dressing-room 
had been a trance, and that she had really been speaking 
with Juliet. In the dressing-room she had seen before her 
only a fine-looking, intellectual, and very courteous lady ; but 
now, upon the stage, she could not see this lady at all. She 
even lost the power of remembering her. Those jet-black 
tresses, those fine eyes, and that pale, beautiful forehead — 
above all, that rich, majestic voice — all these belonged to 
Juliet, were Juliet, and she knew that it was a Juliet in 
nature, if not in name, who had spoken to her, and taken her 
hand, and kissed her. 

This is perhaps the seyerest test to which an artist can be 
put. When you know the writer of a book, you cannot help 


S4 


IN SILK A TTIRR. 


underestimating the book. You are familiar with the au- 
thor’s personality, his habit of thought, perhaps with the 
material on which he works ; you think of him more than of 
his book ; and nothing but the soundest and most concen- 
trated effort will overcome the influence of this unwittingly 
unjust scrutiny. When you know an actor or an actress, you 
involuntarily search for himself or herself in the assumed 
character ; you look at the character from within, not from 
without ; you destroy the illusion by a knowledge of its ma- 
terial elements. Nothing but the power of genius will force 
upon you, under these circumstances, the idealism which the 
artist is laboring to complete. 

But Dove was an easy subject for the spiritual magnetism 
of art. Her keenly sympathetic nature vibrated to the least 
motion of the magician’s hand ; and when the passionate 
climax of Juliet’s misery was reached. Dove had entirely lost 
self-control. For a little time she tried to retain her com- 
posure, although Mrs. Anerley saw her lips suddenly tremble 
when Juliet begged the friar to show her some means of re- 
maining faithful to her husband — 

“And I will do it without fear or doubt, 

To live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love.” 

But in the final scene she quite broke down. She rose and 
went to the back of the box, and stood in a corner, sobbing 
bitterly. Mr. Anerley drew her towards him, and tried to 
soothe her. in his quiet, kindly way. 

“ My darling, why should you vex yourself ! You will see 
Juliet alive in a few minutes.” 

“ I know it well enough,” she said, trying to assume her 
ordinary manner, “ but it’s very wrong for any one to write 
things like that, to make people cry.” 

“The naughty Shakspeare sha’n’t do it again, that he 
sha’n’t,” said Will, compassionately. “ And as for Miss 
Brunei, who is most in fault — but here she comes ! ” 

Will picked out of the corner the large bouquet which lay 
there, and returned in time to let it drop — nearly the first of 
a fine collection of similar tributes which welcomed the tri- 
umph of the young actress — almost at her feet. Romeo 
picked it up, along with two others : she took this particular 
one, and sent a single bright look so clearly up to the box, 
that a good many heads were turned thither. When Romeo 
had picked up the remaining bouquets, and when she had 
asrain and aeain bowed her acknowledgments of the cordial 


THE COUNT'S BROTHER, 


5S 


applause of the theatre, the girl with the pale face and the 
black hair retired, and the people calmed down. 

“ Now, Dove,” said Will, “ if you wish to be cheered up a 
bit before going, there is as absurd a farce as ever was writ- 
ten to follow. Shall we stay ? ” 

“ Just as you please. Will,” said Dove, looking down. 

The first of her new duties, she thought, was submission 
and obedience ; and she hoped neither Mr. nor Mrs. Anerley 
noticed her little conjugal effort. 

It was agreed, however, that they should go home at once, 
and Will went off to hunt up Count Schonstein’s brougham. 
In a short space of time they were seated in the Langham 
Hotel, awaiting supper. 

“ And not the least pleasant part of a play,” said Mr. An- 
erley, dogmatically, as he fingered one of his wineglasses, 
“ is the supper after. You come out of the gas and the heat 
into a cool, fresh room ; and — and — Waiter I bring some 
ice, please.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE count’s brother. 

On that same evening Herr Graf Von Schonstein dined 
with his brother, Mr. John Hubbard, at his residence, Rose 
Villa, Haverstock Hill. The count, since his grand acces- 
sion to fortune, was not a frequent visitor at his brother’s 
house ; but when he did go there, he was treated with much 
deference and apparent kindness. 

There were at dinner only the count, his brother, his 
brother’s wife, and her sister. When the two ladies rose to 
go into the drawing-room, Mrs. Hubbard said to the count 
who had sprung to the door, 

“ Pray don’t leave us two poor creatures all to ourselves ; 
you may smoke in the drawing-room whenever you please to 
come in.” 

“Jack,” said the count, returning to the table and pulling 
out his cigar-case, “ that wife of yours is an angel ! ” 

And so she was an angel — that is, a being without predi- 
cates. She was a mild, colorless, pretty woman, never out 
of temper, never enthusiastic, absolutely ignorant of every 
thing beyond drawing-room accomplishments, scarcely proud 
even of her smooth, light-brown hair, her blue eyes, and 


IN siLj^ A rrmjQ. 


s6 

rounded cheeks. She knew, of course, that there were few 
women of her age looked so well and so young ; she did not 
know enough to attribute that rotundity and youthfulness of 
face to her easy temperament, her good disposition, and lack 
of brain. Mrs. John Hubbard was conscious of thinking se- 
riously only upon one subject ; and that was, whether the 
count, her brother-in-law, could be induced to marry her 
sister, or whether he would remain unmarried, and leave his 
large fortune to her eldest boy Alexander, a young gentleman 
of eight, who now, in Highland dress, was about to sit down 
at the piano and delight his mother and aunt with a staccato 
rendering of “ La ci darem la mano.” 

There were reasons why Mrs. Hubbard should be dis- 
quieted upon this point. 

“Quite an angel,” said the count, oracularly. “ But we 
mustn’t go into the drawing-room just yet. I want to talk to 
you. Jack, about that young lady, you know.” 

“ Miss Brunei ? ” 

“ Yes. Will you mind my taking a glass of that pale port- 
of yours with my cigar ? I know it’s a shame, but — ” 

“ Don’t mention it, Fred ; I wish you’d come oftener and 
try it.” 

John Hubbard straightened himself up in his wide easy- 
chair, and prepared to receive his brother’s disclosures or 
questions on a matter which was deeply interesting to them 
both. John was very unlike his stout, pompous brother — a 
thin little man, with gray hair and gray eyes, troubled by a 
certain twitching of the eyebrows, and affected generally by 
a weak and extremely nervous constitution. An avaricious 
man who sees his younger brother become possessed of thirty 
thousand a year, which he himself expected to get, gener- 
ally exhibits other than fraternal feelings ; but whatever John 
Hubbard may have felt, the fact remains, that so soon as 
his brother Frederick became the undoubted owner of this 
money, he, John, began to observe towards him a severe 
deference and courtesy. When the count went to dine at 
Rose Villa, there were no tricks played upon hini in the mat- 
ter of wine. The claret-cup was not composed of “sudden 
death,” at ten shillings a dozen, with a superabundance of 
water, and cucumber-peel instead of borage. The dry sherry 
was not removed with the fish, in the hope that the dulled 
after-dinner palate might accept some Hambro’ decoction 
with equanimity. One wine was pretty much the same as 
another wine to the Count Von Schonstein; but he was 


THE COUNT^S BROTHER. 


57 


pleased to know that his brother thought so much of him as 
to be regardless of expense. 

“Are you quite sure, Jack,” said the younger brother, 
drawing his chair near, “ that nobody, beyond those you men- 
tioned to me, knows who Miss Brunei is ? ” 

“As far as I know, Fred — as far as I know,” said the 
other, in an injured, querulous tone. “ I can’t hold myself re- 
sponsible, and I’m not infallible.” 

“ In a matter of this kind,” said the count, smiling benignly, 
“ most people seem to think that Cayley and Hubbard are 
infallible. They say you are the repositories of all the scan- 
dals of the aristocracy ; and that you might turn England up- 
side down by publishing what you know. But I dare say 
that’s exaggerated. Now, don’t you think that some one 
who remembers that story of twenty-five years ago, and hap- 
pens to see Miss Brunei, might recognize the resemblance 
between her and her mother, and then begin to inquire into 
the affair ? ” 

There was a strong twitching of John Hubbard’s eyebrows. 
He was far from being a good-tempered man ; and to be com- 
pelled to sit and play the hypocrite was almost too much for 
him. He saw clearly whither these questions tended. He 
knew his brother’s ruling passion ; he knew there was noth- 
ing he would not do to b^e admitted among those people who 
had refused to recognize his purchased title. Again and 
again he had inwardly cursed his folly in telling the count the 
story of Annie Napier and her daughter ; that breach of pro- 
fessional confidence was likely to lose his family thirty thou- 
sand a year. Can one conceive a more tantalizing position 
for a narrow-minded and avaricious man to assume than the 
involuntary prompting and guidance of a scheme which is 
likely, in the most gratuitous way to deceive his own most 
dearly cherished hopes ? If some one else had suggested 
to the count a marriage with Miss Brunei as a possible pass- 
port to society, John Hubbard would not have been so cha- 
grined. He would have been able to dissuade his brother 
from the step with such reasons as he could discover. But he 
had himself told the ccrunt the real history of Annie Brunei ; 
he was compelled to furnish him with all sorts of informa- 
tion ; and saw, through his own instrumentality, that money 
slipping out of his fingers which otherwise might have been 
his or his son’s. 

“ I have explained it to you before, Fred,” he said, patient- 
ly. “ Old Mr. Cayley who went out to America to see the 
Marquis of Knottingley^’s wife, lives down in Suffolk,, where 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


he is not likely to meet people who^ have much interest in 
Miss Brunei. Besides, he has a very fine sense of honor in 
these matters, and would not break a pledge he gave to Miss 
Brunei’s mother, not to seek in any way to induce her daugh- 
ter to leave the stage. And you know the people who knew 
of the marriage were very few, and most of them are dead. 
Mr. Balk is in his dotage, and lives in Westmoreland. Then 
who is likely to remember Miss Napier’s appearance; or to 
perceive a likeness between her and Miss Brunei beyond the 
casual likenesses which occur constantly on the stage } I 
believe I could count on my ten fingers all the people who 
know who Miss Brunei really is. There’s my wife — one ; 
old Mr. Cayley — two ; Caley, my partner — three ; you 
yourself — ” 

He stopped ; for his brother was evidently not listening to 
him. So preoccupied was the count, indeed, that he broke 
the ash off the end of his cigar upon the edge ot his wine- 
glass, allowing the ash to fall into the port. 

“ I hope I haven’t poisoned you with some of my wines,” 
said John Hubbard, with a thin laugh. 

“ 1 beg your pardon ! ” said his brother, reaching over for 
another glass; “ I really didn’t know what I was about. The 
whole affair seems to me so romantic and impossible — like a 
play, you know, or something of that sort. I can scarcely 
believe it ; and yet you lawyer fellows must sometimes meet 
with such cases.” 

“I have one of my people down in Southend just now, 
trying if he can trace anything about a woman and her child, 
who, we believe, lived there eighteen years ago. If we find 
her, a curious story will come out. But I never in the whole 
course of my life heard of any woman, except Miss Napier, 
who refused a title and a fortune which were by right her 
own. I suppose the common-sense of actresses gets poisoned 
by the romantic sentiment in which they live and breathe.” 

“ If you mean as regards money,” said the count, with a 
patronizing smile,“ I can assure you that most actresses have 
an uncommonly small proportion of sentiment and a very 
tolerable share of sense. Miss Brunei’s mother must have 
been an extraordinary woman in many respects — what you 
and I would consider a fool, though many people would give 
her folly a fine name. Now, about revealing this secret to 
Miss Brunei, don’t you think some of the marquis’s relatives 
might do that ? ” 

“ They would cut their fingers off first,” said John Hub- 
bard, with nervous decision. “They knew every action of 


THE COUNT'S BROTHER. 


59 


her mother after she left this country — so old Mr. Cayley 
told me ; they now watch her daughter closely, and try to dis- 
cover everything they can about her ; and their intensest 
hope is that she may never learn what a splendid property 
lies at her command, so that it may revert to them or their 
heirs, as the will directs. And what a property it is, Fred ! ” 

‘‘ Ah ! I suppose so,” said the count, with a sigh. 

To do him justice, he did not consider so much as another 
might have done the money he would get by marrying Miss 
Brunei : his desire to marry her was wholly selfish, but the 
selfishness was begotten of no greed of money. 

“ The trustees are as diligent in looking after the property 
as though it were to be given up to-morrow. And how those 
rents accumulate ! It was Lord Belsford who proposed to 
use up some of the money in buying off the mortgages which 
still hung over the Northamptonshire estate from the time of 
the marquis’s father ; and, now that has been done^ it is noth- 
ing but a huge machine turning out money for nobody’s use.” 

The little nervous lawyer seemed to be quite overwhelmed 
by the contemplation of such a thing. If he had had the op- 
tion of becoming the proprietor of this valuable coining-ma- 
chine, he would not have allowed the opportunity to pass. 
And even now it occurred to him that in the event of his 
brother marrying Miss Brunei, and acquiring this vast wealth, 
the count might, out of gratitude for the service done him in 
the matter, leave his thirty thousand pounds a year to. the 
young gentleman in the adjoining drawing-room. The alter- 
native was possible, but it was remote. John Hubbard would 
vastly have preferred his brother remaining unmarried. 

“ You know why I am so anxious to know all about this 
matter, Jack,” said the count, uneasily. 

His brother nodded. 

“ It is a hazardous thing — seems to me almost impossible,” 
continued the count — and he was never tired of reiterating 
his doubts on the subject — “that such a fortune and title 
should belong to anybody without their knowing it.” 

“ It was her mother’s wish,” said John Hubbard. 

“ Oh, I know,” said the count, “ that she has been brought 
up to regard with apprehension every one out of her profes- 
sion ; and I know she believes that under no circumstances 
ought she to leave the stage. And yet I fancy she will not be 
very grateful either to her mother, or to old Mr. Cayley, or to 
the trustees, for keeping her in ignorance of her good fortur' 
And if she should consent to be my wife, she will prob 
accuse me of having used the secret for my own purpo' 


6o 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


The count spoke as if such an accusation would do him a 
great injury. But the possibility of the future he had chalked 
out for himself drove away this ugly after-thought. He became 
quite excited. His face was flushed ; his hand trembled as 
he lifted his glass. 

“ God knows,” he said, earnestly, “ that it is not her money 
I want. I’m. not a fortune-hunter.” 

“ You have a lot of money,” said his brother, gently, while 
he watched his face with those mild gray eyes. “ If you were 
to marry Miss Brunei, you could afford to part with what you 
have now.” 

“ What do you take me for ? ” said the count, with a touch 
of virtuous indignation. “ If I were to marry Miss Brunei, I 
should insist on her settling all her money on herself. I have 
enough to live upon, thank God i ” 

John Hubbard’s mind was made up on the spot. 

“ You will never marry Miss Brunei, Fred,” he said, quietly. 

“ Why .? ” said the other, suddenly putting down the glass 
he had been lifting. . 

“ Simply because her relatives on the father’s side won’t 
allow it.” 

“ You said they — ” 

“ They are content to say nothing while they hope to secure 
the reversion of the property through Miss Brunei’s dying in- 
testate,” said John Hubbard, calmly, though his eyebrows 
were twitching nervously. “ When, however, they understand 
that you, a brother of mine, and therefore likely to know how 
matters stand, are about to marry Miss Brunei, they "will in- 
form her of her true position, and implore her not to^mari*)^ a 
man beneath her in rank. And you know, Fred, they will be 
able to point to your previous silence as a witness against 
you.” 

The first impulse of Count Schon stein was to dart an angry 
glance at the pale, quiet little man before him, as though the 
latter had dealt him an unprovoked blow ; then, when he saw 
in his brother’s calm face only corroborative testimony ol the 
appalling truth he had uttered, the count leaned back in his 
chair, unable to conceal his fright and dismay. 

At that moment. Master Alexander entered the room, and 
said, 

“ Please, Uncle Frederick, mamma says coffee is in the 
drawing-room, and will you come and have some ? ” 

'‘Yes, yes, my boy,” said the count, jumping up from his 

scarcely knew what he was about. John Hubbard rose 


7'HE COUNT'S BROTHER. 


6i 


also, and then they walked into the drawing-room, where Mrs. 
Hubbard saw something in her brother-in-law’s face which 
she not unnaturally, but quite wrongly, attributed to his hav- 
ing taken too much wine. 

Miss Fleet, Mrs. Hubbard’s sister, was singing a certain 
popular ballad, expressing her wish that the laird might marry 
the lady of high degree, and declaring that, for her part, she 
would sooner dance upon the green with Donald. Miss 
Fleet’s voice trembled consciously when the count entered 
the room. She was a fine, roseate, country-looking woman 
of twenty-six or twenty-seven, much coarser and stouter than 
her elder sister ; and she sung with those broad alternations 
of and which some girls, and nearly all actresses, 
consider to be effective. Miss Fleet, now that the count had 
come in, simply roared in the louder passages, and then sub- 
sided into an almost inaudible whisper when she ’meant to 
be particularly tender. 

“ Thank you — thank you,” said the count, absently, when 
she had finished ; but her ear detected no particular emphasis 
in the words for which she had been waiting. 

Rose, Villa was not a large place, but it possessed the ad- 
vantage of being enclosed ; and from the drawing-room one 
could slip out into a small garden which was quite surrounded 
and guarded by a row of trees. The count sat at the French 
window leading out into this garden ; and was so forgetful of 
all common politeness as to stare persistently out into the 
darkness, where the tall black trees were grouped in masses 
against the faint twinkling sky. 

Like 'a government suddenly knocked out of its reckoning 
by an adverse vote, he “ wished to consider his position.” 
There had been plenty of difficulties in the way before ; but 
this last stumbling-block so cruelly pointed out by his brother ^ 
seemed the most irremovable of all. In a moment of tem- 
porary spleen, he was almost ready to give the whole thing 
up, and return to — 

Then a vision of that lonely great house near St. Mary- 
Kirby arose before him, and he shrunk from the weariness 
and dullness, of his life there, from the restless hoping against 
hope which he had pursued there, from the constant disap- 
pointments following his best-directed efforts. 

If he Were to marry the girl, would not his path be clear ? 
Beautiful in person, graceful in manner, with an intellect a 
thousand times superior to that of any woman she was likely 
?o meet, he would have every reason to be proud of his wife ; 
and then, as the husband .of Lady Annie Ormond, the onl', 


62 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


daughter of the Marquis of Knottingley, and the owner of 
those fine estates which had such tempting shooting, would 
not their friendship be sought after and valued by the very 
persons who now, taking their cue from the lord chamberlain, 
doubtless, were graceless enough to look upon him as an in- 
terloper or adventurer ? 

Not by means of any chain of philosophic reasoning, but 
through a bitter experience, Count Schonstein had arrived 
at the conclusion that a large sum of money per se, was, not 
happiness. It was doubtless very well that he could have 
the finest wines and cigars, drive in comfortable vehicles, and 
be unhampered in spending money ostentatiously ; but even 
when he was only a tea-broker, he had a modest brougham, 
such wine and cigars as he required, and spent quite as 
much in fashionable charities as he did now. He had found 
out that a man cannot, by doubling his income, eat two din- 
ners a day instead of one. With thirty thousand a year he 
could drink no more wine than was possible to him when his 
annual income was to be counted in hundreds. Conse- 
quently, he got tired of material pleasures which could not 
he increased ; and sometimes he even ceased to enjoy boast- 
ing of the high prices he paid for such luxuries as he used. 
Like every other human being he was forced to fix his desires 
upon something he did not possess ; and he stupidly chose a 
difficult thing. Unaided, he might as well have sought to get 
up a crusade among Scotchmen for the restoration of the sacred 
stone which now rests in Westminster Abbey. He had set 
his heart upon gaining admission to the aristocracy, and the 
moon for which he cried was to be reached by no ladder of 
his making. 

Mrs, Hubbard thought he was ill. Having attentively but 
covertly regarded him for some time, she went to her hus- 
band, who was getting himself another cup of coffee. 

“John,” she whispered, “ has your brother been drinking 
Miss Betham’s sherry by mistake ? ” 

“No, my dear; how could he? There was none on the 
table.” 

Off goes Master Alexander to his uncle. 

“ Uncle Frederick, mamma wants to know if you have been 
drinking Miss Betham’s sherry.” ' 

“ If you will tell me who Miss Betham is, I shall be able 
to — ” 

“ Don’t you know Miss Betham, our governess ? She hus 
some sherry every day for lunch, and nobody else will talke 
the sherry that’s kept for her, and — ” 


THE COUNT'S BROTHER. 




“ Never mind the boy,” said John Hubbard, coming hastily 
forward, with an awkward laugh. “It was only a joke- I 
said you looked as dull as though you’d been drinking Miss 
Betham’s sherry : we do keep a light wholesome wine for her 
and for the servants, when they get ill, you know.” 

Master Alexander said nothing, but he resolved to inform 
Miss Betham of the “ crammer ” his papa had made use of. 
Nor did Uncle Frederick care to ask how a light and whole- 
some wine (which in reality would have blushed at the sight 
of a grape) was likely to have made him ill. 

The count rose abruptly, opened the glass door, and, with- 
out a word of apology to the ladies, beckoned his brother to 
follow. They passed out into the garden, and the count 
began to pace heavily up and down the gravelled pathway 
under the trees. 

“ I can’t afford to give up this so easily as you seem to 
think. Jack,” he said ; and he spoke roughly and angrily. 

“ I always knew you had a strong will, Frederick,” said his 
brother, gently. 

“ I’ve set my heart on it, I tell you. What’s the use of 
my money to me ? D — n it. Jack, I might as well be down in 
Thames Street again ! ” 

“ Few people would grumble if they had your good luck,” 
said the elder brother, in his mildest voice. 

“ I don’t care what few people, or what many people, would 
do. I know that when I make up my mind to a thing, I 
stick to it ; and instead of you sitting quietly by and throwing 
obstacles in my way, the least you ought to do would be to 
help me.” 

“ You’re very unfair, Fred,” said John Hubbard, in an 
injured tone. “ Wasn’t I the first to tell you about Miss 
Brunei ? And now — ” 

“ And now you try to throw cold water on the whole business. 
But I am not a child. Miss Brunei’s friends may be very 
aristocratic and very fine, but they have not all the power in 
their hands. Look here. Jack, what’s to prevent my marry- 
ing Miss Brunei before they know anything about it? And 
after the marriage is over they may make what disclosures 
they please ; I shall be beforehand with them.” 

“ Are you sure that Miss Brunei will marry you, Fred ? ” 
said his brother, insidiously. 

The count laughed out, in his stormy and contemptuous 
way, 

“ Your brain has been turned. Jack, by hearing of that 
one actress who refused a lot of money. Take my word for 


64 


JN SILK A TTLRK 


it, you will never hear of another. If I offer Annie Brunei 
Balnacluith Place, my house in Bayswater, the place over in 
Baden, what horses and carriages she pleases, with as much 
company at home and gadding about abroad as she can wish 
for, I am not very apprehensive about her answer. When 
we were younger. Jack, we could have imagined some Joan 
of Arc declining these things ; but now we know better.” 

“ It is a strong temptation,” said his brother, absently : he 
did not like to say how very uncertain he considered Annie 
Brunei’s acceptance of the offer. 

“And, besides,” added the count, with virtuous warmth, 
“ I do not think I flatter myself when I look upon the money 
as not the only inducement. I’ll make as good a husband to 
her as any one I know ; and I don’t think my disposition is 
quarrelsome or niggardly. And besides. Jack, she must 
remember that it is not every one who would marry an act- 
ress, and consent never to look into her past life, which in the 
case of an actress must have been made up of a good many 
experiences, you know. Of course I don’t mean to depreciate 
her. She is doubtless a very honest, and good, and ladylike 
girl ; but still — she mustn’t expect too much.” 

And the count was quite sincere in making this ingenuous 
speech. He rather considered himself a praiseworthy person 
in stooping to this unequal match. He had not the least 
perception of the selfishness of the view he took of the whole 
matter. It was quite natural to him to think only of his own 
ends and purposes, and he took no shame to himself for it. 
He never for a moment regarded the scheme from her point 
of view, nor stayed to inquire what might be the possible 
results of it where she was concerned. He did not even con- 
sider what her regard for him would probably be after she 
discovered the reasons which had induced him to marry her; 
nor that she was likely to have little respect for a man who 
had played upon her ignorance to further his own designs. 
The count was conscious of acting quite honestly (to his own 
nature), and never thought that any one would accuse him 
of deceit in so doing. 


MISS BRUNEI A T NOME, 


65 


CHAPTER X. 

MISS BRUNEL AT HOME. 

Will Anerley did not forget his promise to visit Annie 
Brunei, but he seemed in no hurry to fulfil it. Had he been 
a young man about town, the temptation of having something 
special to say at his club or at dancing-parties about the new 
actress, of whom everybody was talking, would have proved 
too much for him. When a man, however, spends most of 
his dancing years abroad, and gets a good deal knocked 
about the world, he ceases to long for the pretty celebrity of 
social gossip, and has no great desire to become a temporary 
hero among a lot of well-meaning but not very profound peo- 
ple, who are sure to mispronounce his name and take him for 
somebody else. 

It happened one morning, however, that he had been invited 
to breakfast with a noble lord, then in the Government, who 
was desirous of getting some special information wherewith 
to confound an opposition member who had given notice of 
his intention to ask a particularly ugly question in the House. 
His lordship thanked Will heartily for his kindness, hoped 
he might be able to return the service in some slight way, 
hinted something about a day’s fishing if Anerley happened 
to be in the neighborhood of a place of which he had never 
heard before, and then proceeded to get in order the catapult 
with which he hoped that evening to demolish the indiscreet 
member. 

Having nothing particular to do just then. Will thought he 
would take a stroll in Kensington Gardens, and proceeded to 
take a short cut in that direction. Passing a little cul-de-sac 
of a street, which had not above half a dozen houses on each 
side, it struck him that the name on the wall was familiar to 
him. He then remembered that this was the place in which 
Annie Brunei lived ; . and, thinking the occasion very oppor- 
tune, he turned the corner and walked down to the proper 
house. They were very pretty little houses, with white pil- 
lars and porticos draped with Virginian creepers, and with a 
good many trees around them. Miss Brunei had been fortu- 
nate enough to get the offer of one of these houses, furnished, 
at a moderate rent, and she and Mrs. Christmas had decided 
at once to accept it. It was a quiet little place, pleasantly 
situated, with 9 tolerably large garden behind. 


66 


JN SILK A TTIRE. 


Will passed inside the gate, and was about to ascefid the 
steps, when the door above was opened, and a young lady 
came out of the house. Somehow he fancied he had seen her 
before — where, he knew not. She was rather an attractive- 
looking little person, with a pert, slightly upturned nose, big 
and rather wicked blue eyes, short, loose brown curls, and a 
decided look of violet-powder about her forehead and neck. 
The saucy bright eyes looked at Will for a moment with a 
bold, familiar glance, and there was a shadow of a smile on 
her pretty lips. 

Of course he took off his hat, and muttered something like 
“ Good-morning.” 

“ Good-morning,” she said, holding out her hand, and look- 
ing at him with those dangerous blue eyes. “ Don’t you re- 
member me } ” 

The moment he heard the voice, he recognized it. It was 
the thrilling voice of “ Perseus ” of “ Good-for-nothing ” Nan, 
of “ PeggyGreen,” of “ The Little Rebel,” of “ Mrs. White,” of 
“ Fatima,” of “ Rose Dufard ” — of Nelly Featherstone. Had 
her eye-lashes been caked with cosmetic, herlips reddened with 
salve, and the violet-powder of her face tempered with glycerine 
and rouge, he would have recognized her at once ; but there 
was a good deal of difference between Miss Featherstone in 
morning costume, with cold daylight on her face, and Miss 
Featherstone in the dashing and glittering garments of Con- 
rad the Corsair, with the glare of the foot-lights on her forced 
complexion and brilliant ornaments. For the rest, he had 
only heard of her as a good and well-meaning little girl, to 
whom Nature had given a deadly pair of eyes and a warm 
temperament. He was at first rather taken aback by her prof- 
fered friendship but a few commonplaces relieved him from the 
predicament. She gave him a parting smile full of sweetness ; 
and he went up to the door and entered the house, leaving 
his card with the servant. 

Presently Mrs. Christmas entered the drawing-room, and 
said that Miss Brunei would be glad to see him out in the 
garden where she was then engaged. 

“You seem to have been ill, Mrs. Christmas,” said Will. 
“ I hope that wild adventure upon Hounslow Heath had noth- 
ing to do with it.” 

“Indeed, I’m afraid it had, Mr. Anerley,” said the little 
woman, whose bright eyes were unnaturally bright, her face 
also being unusually pale. “ I have never been well since ; 
but old folks like me mustn’t Complain, you know, Mr. Aner- 
ley. We mustn’t complain if we get ill at times.” 


MISS BRUNEI AT HOME. 


67 


“ I’m sorry you’ve been ill. You ought to go and live in 
the warm, fresh air of the country, when the summer’s fully 
in.” 

“ I’ve never left Miss Annie for a day since her mother 
died, Mr. Anerley, and I’m not going to forsake her now. It 
would be hard on both of us.” 

“ But she might go with you.” 

“ That’s easy saying.” 

They went out and crossed a little bit of lawn, which had 
a few vases upon it, and here and there a plot of spring an- 
nuals. A short distance down the side-path they came to a 
small summer-house, which was arched over with a piece of 
light framework ; and in front of this framework stood Annie 
Brunei, on a chair, tying up with loops of string the bright- 
leaved creepers, which were yet in their erratic youth. Her 
hands were busy over her head, and her face was upturned, 
showing the fine outline of her neck and figure — a shapeli- 
ness of bust which was not lessened by a tight-fitting and 
pretty morning-dress, which Will thought the most graceful 
thing he had ever seen, particularly as it caught streaks of 
sunlight now and again through the diamond spaces above. 

When he went up to her and shook hands with her, he fan- 
cied he observed a slight tinge of embarrassment in her face ; 
but that quickly wore off, and she returned to her usual 
bright happiness of manner, continuing her work by fits and 
snatches. And every position into which her bea,utiful figure 
fell seemed more admirable than its predecessor. 

“ I wonder,” thought Will “ if any man ever lifted her down 
from the saddle ; and did he immediately die of joy ? ” 

Perhaps he was sorry at the moment that one’s descent 
from a chair is so obviously an easy feat. 

“ I’m doing this out of pure mischief,” she said, “ and 
earning for myself such heaps of muttered scolding and ill- 
will. The gardener comes to us twice a week ; and he is 
quite savage if I have meddled with anything in the mean 
time. I can’t pacify him. I have tried every means, but he 
is too obdurate. Miss Featherstone says I ought to hire a 
young gardener, and I might have the garden done any way 
I wished.” 

“ Sulky servants are always tlie best servants,” said Will, 
rather absently; for the clear, dark Italian face, and the 
bright smile, and the white teeth, oppressed him with a vague, 
delicious melancholy. ‘‘ But a gardener, whether he is good 
or bad, is always sulky. My mother is afraid to touch one 
of the plants in the greenhouse until it is half withered ; and 


6e 


JN SILK A TTIRE. 


when some people come, and she carries off a lot of the 
plants for the hall and dinner-table, she trembles to meet the 
old man next morning. I suppose gardeners get so fond of 
their flowers as to be jealous, and jealousy is always cross. 
By-the-bye, wasn’t that Miss Featherstone who left as I came 
in?” 

Yes.” 

“ I scarcely knew her. In fact, I only saw her once before ^ 
off the stage — at that supper ; and yet she was kind enough 
to bid me good-morning.” 

“ Then she must have thought you were a newspaper gen- 
tleman,” said Mrs. Christmas, with a good-natured little 
laugh. She is very partial to them. And that one she 
knows just now teaches her such dreadful things, and th^ 
heedless girl repeats them wherever she goes, to make peo- 
ple laugh. What was it she said this morning, Miss 
Annie ? — that on St. Patrick’s Day there were so many 
wicked things done in Ireland, that the recording angel had 
to take to short-hand.” 

“Well, Lady Jane,” said Miss Brunei, “you need not have 
repeated what she said ; and it’s very wrong of you to say 
anything against poor Nelly, who is a warn hearted, mad 
little creature.” 

“ She’s not so simple as she looks,” said Mrs. Christmas, 
nodding her head sagaciously. “ I am an old woman, and 1 
know, i^id the way she uses that poor young gentleman — 
him in the Government office, who was at the supper, you 
know, Mr. Anerley — is downright shameful. She told me 
this morning that he made her swear on an open Prayer-book 
never to put bismuth on her arms or neck again ; I suppose 
because he expects to marry her, and doesn’t want to have 
her all shrivelled up, and bismuth is very bad, you know, for 
that ; and that newspaper gentleman whom she knows said, 
whenever she wanted to quarrel, with the poor young man, 
and make him believe that she had perjured herself all for 
the love of shiny white arms, she ought to — ! ” 

“ Mr. Anerley,” said the young girl, looking down from her 
work, “will you silence that talkative child by giving it a 
piece of sugar? ,^What must you think of us actresses ff she 
goes on like that? ” 

“ She — bah ! ” said the old woman, in a melodramatic whis- 
per, with a nod towards Miss Brunei. “ She knows no more 
of Nelly Featherstone and the rest of ’em than an infant 
does. They don’t talk to her like they do to an old woman 
like me.” 


/ 


MISS BRUNEI A T HOME. 


69 

“Now I have finished,” said the young lady, jumping 
lightly down from the chair (Will did not even get the chance 
of taking her hand), “ and we’ll go inside, if you please.” 

“ Shall I bring in the chair ? ” asked Will. 

“ Oh no ! We leave the old thing out here : it is for no 
other use.” 

Somehow it seemed to be quite a valuable chair in his 
eyes : he would have given a good deal to be its owner just 
then. 

As they got in-doors, Mrs. Christmas went up-stairs, and 
Will followed Annie Brunei into the drawing-room, which 
was rather prettily furnished, and had a good deal of loose 
music scattered about the tables and piano. He had been 
in finer drawing-rooms, with grander ladies, and yet he had 
never before felt so rough and uncultivated. He wished he 
had looked particularly at his hair and mustache before 
coming out, and hoped they were not very matted, and loose, 
ancl^reckless — which they certainly were. Indeed, he looked 
like spme stalwart and bronzed seaman who hadv.just come 
off a long voyage, and who seemed to regard with a sort of 
wonder the little daintinesses of land-life. 

“ I thought you had quite run away with my sis — , with 
that young lady, the other evening when she went to see you,” 
he said. 

“You would have been sorry for that,” she replied, with a 
quiet smile. 

Will was not at all so pleased with the gentle motherly 
tone in which she uttered these words’ as he ought to have 
been. She seemed to take it for granted that his love-secret 
was known to her; he would have preferred — without any 
particular reason — its not being known. 

“ What a gentle, lovable girl she is ! ” continued the young 
actress. “ I never knew any one who so thoroughly won me 
over in a few minutes. She was so sweet, and quiet, and 
frank ; one could tell by her face everything she thought. 
She must be very sensitive and affectionate : I hope so ten- 
der a creature will never have to suffer much. And you — 
you must be very proud of her.” 

“ We all are.” 

Miss Brunei widened her eyes ^lightly, but said nothing. 

“ By-the-way,” said Will, with an evident effort, “ I gath- 
ered together a number of Suabian peasant-songs when I was 
out there, which I should like to hear you sing. I know you 
will like them, they are so tender and simple. Dove has 


70 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


tried one or two of them, but her voice is scarcely low and 
full enough for them — ” 

“ Dove is your sister's name, is it not ? 

“ Yes.” 

“ And how do you know I can sing at all ? ” she asked, 
with a smile. 

“ As well ask a star if it has light,” said he, warmly. 

“ You have lived too long in the East,” she retorted, gently. 

When Mrs. Christmas came into the room at that moment 
there was a slight constraint visible upon both the young 
people. Will felt that he had gone a little too far, while An- 
nie Brunei seemed to think that she had rather rudely warned 
him off such dangerous ground. The danger was not in the 
words, but in his tone. 

Mrs. Christmas had just received an East London local 
paper, in which some youthful poet had poured forth his 
rhapsodies over Annie Brunei and her Juliet. There was 
nothing remarkable in the verses, except that the author hoped 
to meet Miss Brunei in heaven. This was natural eno*hgh. 
The almost inevitable climax of a commonplace poet is 
heaven, simply because^eaven is the only idealism of com- 
monplace minds\ It is almost a matter of necessity, there 
fore, that hymiVs should end with “above,” or “Eden,” or 
“ Paradise ; ” and that magazine poets should lay down the 
pen with a sigh of relief when they have left their reader 
somewhere among the fixed stars. 

“It is kind of him to suppose that an actress may get to 
heaven at all,” said Annie Brunei, when Mrs. Christmas had 
read the verses. 

Once or twice before Will had remarked this tendency 
towards bitterness of feeling in the young girl’s contemplatio/i 
of the non-professional world. He could not divine its 
cause. He was vexed to see it ; and now he said, boldly, 
“You ought not to speak like that, Miss Brunei. You 
wrong both yourself and those of whom you speak. You 
really have imbibed — I don’t know how — a singular prejudice 
against people out of your own profession.” 

“ Don’t they refuse in France to bury actors in consecrated 
ground ? ” 

“ If they did, thg freaks of a clergy should never be 
blamed upon the people of any country. I suppose the 
priests, through the use of the confessional, were so di^nayed 
about the prospects of their charge in the next world, tliat 
they thought this distinction the only piece of worl.ily conso- 
lation they could give them. But, indeed, Miss Brunei, you 


MISS BRUNEI AT HOME. 


71 


must abandon that touch of Bohemianism which you uncon- 
sciously allow to escape you sometimes, and which is unfair 
to—” 

“ I won’t have you argue for these people,” she said, with 
a smile. “ 1 was glad you came here this morning, for I want 
to win you over to us. Didn’t I say. Lady Jane, when I first 
met him, he was so unlike the other — what shall I call 
them ? — outsiders ? Well, perhaps it is foolish of me to talk 
about these people, for I know nothing whatever of them ; 
but I have been educated to consider them as so much raw 
material to be deluded and impressed by stage effect, and I 
shall never be able to regard them as anything else than 
strangers. Haven’t you seen the little girl in pink cotton 
and spangles who stands by while her father is performing 
tricks before a lot of village people ? Haven’t you seen her 
watch all the faces round, calculating the effect of the per- 
formance, and wondering how much it will produce in half- 
pence ? No, you needn’t laugh : that is precisely my attitude 
and feeling towards the public.” 

“ You may tell' that to one who has never seen you on the 
stage,” said Will. ‘‘ I know that you have no more thought 
of calculating the effect of what you are doing than the music 
of a violin has.” 

‘•That is because I am then a performer myself, and have 
to attend to my business. When I stand in one of the en- 
trances, and hear the buzz of the theatre, I say to myself, 

’ My big children up there in the boxes, you have paid so much 
to be amused, and you* don’t care much for me ; but in a few 
minutes I’ll have you all as quiet as mice, and in a few minutes 
more I’ll have the prettiest and best among you crying.’ ” 

“ My poor Dove’s eyes were tremulous all the evening 
after seeing you,” he said. 

“ I like to hear you speak kindly of her,” she replied, look- 
ing him straight in the face with her clear and frank eyes. 
“ She will need all the tenderness that friends can give her 
to make her life a happy one.” 

Will felt a dull sense of pain at his heart (why, he knew 
not) on hearing these true and touching words : somehow he 
fancied there was a sympathy almost pathetic in them. 

“ Come,” she said, briskly, as she rose and went to the 
piano, “ I am going to put you to the test. I make all my 
new friends submit to it ; and according as they pass through 
it I regard them afterward. I am going to play three funeral 
marches — Handel’s, Beethoven’s, and Mendelssohn’s. When 
the person experimented on prefers a certain one of them, X 


72 


IN SILK A TTIJ^Kr: 




consider her — 1 have not tried the experim^i on a gentle- 
man as yet — merely emotional and commonpla^; therefore 
I don’t care much for her. If she likes a certain other one, 
I think she is rather more intellectual, with some dramatic 
sensitiveness ; and then I like her a good deal better. When 
she likes the third, then I think she must have the divinest 
sympathies, and I am ready to fall in love with her.” 

She had sat down to the piano. ; . '' , ^ 

“ But the peril of failure is too great ; I dare hot risk it,” 
said Will. “ It is as hard a trial as the three caskets in the 
‘Merchant of Venice ; ’ only, if the prize were to be the same, 
the chance — ” 

He had spoken quite thoughtlessly ; but he saw in a mo- 
ment, by the pain and confusion of the young actress, what a 
blunder he had made. 

“ Pray don’t mind what I said. Miss. Brunei,” he urged. 
“ I was talking to you without thinking, as I should have 
talked to Dove. I will submit to the three funeral marches, 
if you like — ” 

“ I will spare yon,” she said, good-naturedly. “ If you had 
some of your Suabian songs here just now, I should sing 
them to you. But really it seems a pity to use up such fine 
weather in-doors. Are you particularly engaged to-day ? ” 

“ I have no engagement, if I can be of service to you.” 

“ Mr. Anerley, I am neither a bulbul nor a gazelle. Shall 
I be trespassing on your time if I ask you to take a walk with 
me ? ” 

“ No.” 


“ Lady Jane — Mrs. Christmas, I mean — and I take a stroll 
under the trees in Kensington Gardens every forenoon when 
I have no rehearsal.” 

“ And I,” said Will, “ was on my way to the same place, for 
the same purpose, when I happened to see the name of the 
street, and thought I might venture to trespass on your pa- 
tience.” 

So she went and dressed ; and then together they passed 
out into the open air and the sunlight. 

Will Anerley left that house a very different man from him 
who had entered it an hour and a half before. Nor was he 
conscious of the change. 


IN THE PARK. 


n 


CHAPTER XI. 

IN THE PARK. 

He only knew that he experienced a subtle pleasure in 
listening to the talk of this young girl, in watching the vary- 
ing expression of her face, in admiring her beautiful eyes. 
The easy and graceful friendship they both seemed to enter- 
tain for each other was the simplest, most natural thing in the 
world. There could be no danger in it. Anerley’s life had 
been too full of action to give him the deadly gift of intro- 
spection ; but in no possible mood of self-analysis could he 
have regarded the temporary satisfaction of being near to and 
talking with the young actress as anything else than a pleasant 
and ordinary and harmless accident. He never for a moment 
dreamed of its producing any great result. Had the thing 
been suggested to him, he would have replied that both he 
and she understood each other perfectly ; they had plenty to 
think of in life without indulging in folly ; they had their sep- 
arate work and interests and duties, and the casual pleasure 
they might obtain by meeting as acquaintances was nobody’s 
concern but their own. 

The first attitude of affection is exclusiveness. When one 
sees two young people sending glances across a dinner-table 
which are intelligible to themselves alone — when one per- 
ceives them whispering to each other while elsewhere the 
talk is general — when one observes them, on opposite sides 
at croquet, missing hoops, and slipping balls, and playing to 
aid each other in the most gratuitous, open, and unblushing 
manner, it needs no profound divination to detect a secret 
copartnership between them. Two quite unselfish lovers im- 
mediately become selfish in their united position of antag- 
onism to the rest of the world. And when the girl is pretty, 
the rest of the world consider such selfishness to be simply 
hateful. 

These two young people, who were not lovers, nor had any 
intention of becoming lovers, walked up Victoria Road, and 
so made their way into the cool green shadow of the great 
elms and leafy lindens which make Kensington Gardens so 
delightful a lounge. It was now Ma}^ — the only month 4n 
which London trees seem to look cheerful — and the weather 
was at its freshest and best. 


74 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


“ Mr. Melton proposes to close the theatre in a week or so," 
said Annie Brunei, “ for a month, in order to have it done up 
anew. He is very anxious that I should not accept any en- 
gagement for that month ; and I have been thinking I ought 
to take Mrs. Christmas down to the sea-side, or perhaps over 
to the warm banks of the Rhine, for a week or two. Did you 
remark how very poorly she is ? " 

“ I did," said Will. “ I asked her about it. She seems to 
fancy that our madcap journey to Hounslow Heath brought 
the attack on." 

“ The grass was so wet, you know. I blame myself for it 
all; and indeed there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for the dear 
old creature. She was my only companion and friend for 
many a year." 

“ Won’t you find it very dull going away all by yourselves ? " 

“ Well, no. She is never dull. I never tire of her society 
a moment — she is so full of vivacity and kindliness and funny 
stories ; but I do not like the idea of our going away any- 
where alone. Hitherto, you know, I have always been, in a 
manner, compelled to go by engagement." 

“ Bring her down to St. Mary-Kirby, and let Dove and you 
go about with her.” 

“Thank you. You have told me so much of that quiet 
little valley, and the quiet way of living there, that I should 
feel like an evil spirit invading paradise." 

“ Now, now — you are at it again," he said, laughing. “ I 
won’t have you malign our honest country folks like that. 
My mother would make you her daughter : she has a general 
faculty for making pets of everybody. And my father would 
give you a touch of the old squire-like courtesy he sometimes 
brings out when he is very grand and polite to some London 
young lady who comes down to see us." 

She only smiled in repl}’ — a trifle sadly. 

“ I should like to see a little of that peaceful sort of life — 
perhaps even to try it. Day after day to be always the same, 
always meeting the same people, always looking out on the 
same trees and fields and river, and hoping only for some 
change in the weather, or for a favorable turn to the fortunes 
of one’s pet hero. But then other cares must come. That 
gentle little Dove, for instance — isn’t she sitting just now 
wondering when you will come to see her, and getting quite 
vexed because you stay so long away ? " 

“You seem to have a great affection for Dove," he said. 


IN THE PARK. 


7S 


“ Haven’t you ? ” 

“ Well, of course ; who could help it ? ” 

“ If I were a man I should not try to help it ; I should be 
prouder of the love of such a girl than of anything under 
heaven.” 

Such conversations are not common between young unmar- 
ried people, but neither of these two seemed to consider it 
strange that they should so talk ; for, indeed, Annie Brunei, 
assumed towards Will an amusingly matter-of-fact, kindly, 
almost maternal manner — so much so that, without hesita- 
tion, she would have told him that a little more attention to 
the brushing of his rough brown hair and mustache might not 
have been inappropriate before visiting a lady. Sometimes 
he was amused, sometimes tantalized, by this tone. He was 
a man verging towards thirty, who had all his wits about him, 
who had seen plenty of the world, and knew far more of its 
ways and beliefs and habits than he would have liked to 
reveal to his companion then beside him ; and he could 
scarcely refrain from laughing at the airs of superior worldly 
wisdom which the young actress gave herself, revealing in 
the assumption the charming simplicity of her character. 

They walked down one of the long avenues and crossed 
over into Hyde Park. The Row was very full at this time ; 
and the brightness of the day seemed to have awoke an arti- 
ficial briskness among the melancholy men and plethoric 
girls who had come out for their forced exercise. 

“ I have been in nearly every capital in Europe,” said Will 
to his companion, “ and I have never seen such a company 
of handsome men and women as you may see here almost 
any day. And I never saw anywhere people out to enjoy 
themselves looking so intensely sad over it.” 

“ These are my employers,” said Miss Brunei, with a smile 
on her pale, dark face. “ These are the people who pay me 
to amuse them.” 

“ Look at this big, heavy man coming up now,” said Will. 
“ Look how he bobs in his saddle ; one doesn’t often see such 
a_Why, it is—” 

“ Count Schonstein,” said Miss Brunei. 

It was. And as the count came up and saw Will walking 
by the side of a closely veiled and gracefully dressed young 
lady, he took off his hat in his finest manner, and was about 
to ride on. Perhaps it was the luxuriant black hair or the 
graceful figure of the young girl which made him pause for 
a second and recognize her. At all events, he no sooner saw 
who she was than he stopped his horse, clumsily got down 


76 


IN SILK ATTIRE, 


from the saddle, and drawing the reins over the animal’s head, 
came forward to the railing. 

“ The very two people whom I wished to see,” he observed, 
with a pompous magnanimity. (Indeed there were several 
reasons why he was glad just then to observe that Annie 
Brunei had taken kindly to the young man whom he had intro- 
duced to her.) “ Do you know, Miss Brunei, that Melton is 
going to close his theatre for a month ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Could anything be more opportune ? Now, listen to w'hat 
I have to propose. You want a good holiday in this fine 
weather. Very well. I must go over to Schonstein at once 
to see about some alterations and improvements I want made ; 
and I propose to make it worth Mr. Anerley’s while to go 
with me and superintend part of these improvements. That 
is an affair of necessity and business on my part and his ; 
but why should you and Mrs. Christmas not accept pur con- 
voy over there ? Even if you only go as far as one of the Rhine 
villages, we could see you safely that distance. Or if I could 
persuade you to come and see my place, such as it is — for a 
week or two. I think the excursion would be delightful ; 
and if I can’t entertain you as sumptuously as a king, yet I 
won’t starve you, and I’ll give you the best wine to be 
bought for good money in Baden.” 

Will colored up at the hideous barbarity of the closing sen- 
tence ; but Miss Brunei answered, good-naturedly, 

“You’re very kind indeed, count; and I am sure the wine 
must be a great inducement to Mr. Anerley. But if I go any- 
where for a holiday, it will be for Mrs. Christmas’s sake ; and 
I must see what she says about it first.” 

“ Oh, if it is Mrs. Christmas,” said the count, with a laugh, 
“ I must try to persuade her.” 

“No; I won’t have any coercion. I will place the matter 
before her in all its details, and she shall decide. If we don’t 
go, I hope you’ll have a pleasant journey all th^ same.” 

“ And as for you, Anerley, what do you say .? 

“As our arrangement will be a business matter, we’ll settle 
it another time,” said Will, in a decided tone, which prevented 
the count making further reference to buying and selling. 

“ I won’t take any denial from any one of you,” said the 
count, with a prodigious laugh. “ As for Mrs. Christmas, if 
that little woman dares to thwart me. I'll have her portrait 
published in the illustrated napers as the wife of Rip Van 
Winkle.” 

With which astounding witticism, the count proceeded to 


GOOD-BYE, 


11 


get on horseback again — a rather difficult matter. .Will held 
the stirrup for him, however, and eventually he shook himself 
into the saddle. 

Annie Brunei had lifted her veil to speak to the count ; and 
as her companion now saw that there was a good deal of 
whispering and nodding going on among several knots of ri- 
ders, he thought it prudent to withdraw himself and her into 
the Park. From thence they took their way back through Ken- 
sington Gardens, and so home. 

“ Would it look strange in English eyes,’’ asked Miss Bru- 
nei, frankly, “ if Mrs. Christmas and I, in travelling about, 
were to visit the count’s place ? ” 

“ I don’t think so,” said Will. “And if it did, it wouldn’t 
matter. I think the party would be a very merry and pleasant 
one ; and you would not allow Mrs. Christmas to feel that 
for her sake you were moping alone in some dull sea-side lodg- 
ings. The count is really very good-natured and kind ; and 
I think you would enjoy the quaint old people and their man- 
ners down in the Black Forest.” 

“ Flave you been there ? ” 

“ Oh yes. I have had a passing glance at every place, 
pretty nearly. There you may have a little deer-shooting, if 
you like. I have seen two ladies go out with guns, though 
they never did anything beyond letting one of the guns fall 
and nearly killing a keeper.” 

“ Will it be very expensive going over } ” she asked, quite 
naively, as though she had been calculating the propriety of 
accepting a country engagement. 

“ Not at all. Are you going to say ^ Yes ? * ” 

** If Mrs. Christmas does, I will.” 


CHAPTER XIL 

GOOD-BYE. 

Cras ingens iterabimus aequor : do you know what that 
means, Dove ? ” asked Will. 

“ Something dreadful, I suppose,” she said. 

“ Cras, on Monday night ; iterabimus, I must leave ; mgens 
cequor, for Germany. Didn’t I say I should never leave Eng- 
land again without you. Dove } But this is only for a week 
or two, my darling ; and it is on business ; and I am come tp 
crave your forgiveness and permission.” 


78 


m SILK A TTIHE. 


What did she say ? Not one word. But, being seated at 
the piano just then, and having some knowledge of how she 
could most easily reach her lover’s heart and make him sorry 
for his fickleness, she began to play, with great tenderness, 
with graceful and touching chords, that weird, wild, cruel air, 
“ The Coulin,” the old Irish air, that seems to have in it all the 
love and agony of parting which mankind has ever experienced. 
It is only now and again that humanity has expressed its pain 
or passion in one of those strong, audible throbs — as when, 
for instance, God put the “ Marseillaise ” into the bursting 
heart of Rouget de Lille. One wonders how men live after 
writing such things. 

And as for Will, he never could bear “The Coulin.” He 
put his hand on her shoulder, and said, 

“ Don’t play that any more. Dove. That isn’t the parting 
of love at all — it is the parting of death.” 

“ Ah why should you say that ? ” she said, rising, and creep- 
ing close to him, with tears suddenly starting to her eyes — 
“ why should you say that. Will ? You don’t expect us to be 
parted that w'ay ? ” 

“ Come,” he said, leading her out of the drawing-room into 
the open air. “ The man who wrote ‘ The Coulin ’ had, prob- 
ably, a broken heart ; but that is no reason why we should 
break ours over his misery. My father is teaching Carry 
and Totty to fish for sticklebacks in the pond ; shall we go 
and help them ? ” 

He had gone down to bid good-bye to St. Mary-Kirby and 
its people. The warm valley was very tempting at this time ; 
but did not peremptory business call him away ? For after 
the first yellow flush of the buttercups had died out of the 
meadows, they were growing white wfith the snow of the ox- 
eye ; and the walnut-trees were changing from brown to 
green ; and instead of the lilacs, the bushy, red-budded 
honeysuckle was opening, and burdening the air with its 
perfume. 

Then they had fine weather just then ; would it be finer 
on the Rhine ? The white heat of midday was without haze. 
Sharp and clear were the white houses, specks only, on the far 
uplands ; the fir-woods lay back against the blinding sky ; 
and down here in the valley the long-grassed meadows seemed 
to grow dark in the heat, though there was a light shimmer- 
ing of sunny green surrounding like a halo each pollard-wil- 
low by the river side. In the clear pools the gray trout threw 
black shadows ('U the sand beneath, and lay motionless, with 
their eyes watching your every movement on the bank. St. 


GOOD-BYE. 


ro 

Mar}'- Kirby lay hot and white among the green meadows and by 
the side of the cool stream ; but the people of St. Mary-Kirby 
prayed for rain to swell the fruit of their orchards and fields. 

On their way down to a little gate, which, at one end of 
Mr. Anerley’s garden, allowed you to go out upon a small 
bank overlooking the pond. Will explained to his companion 
the necessity for his going abroad, the probabilities of his 
stay, and so forth. She knew that he was going with Count 
Schonstein, but she did not know that Annie Brunei was to 
be of the party. Will had no particular reason for not 
mentioning the circumstance; but as he strictly confined 
himself to the business aspect of the case. Miss Brunei was 
somehow omitted. 

Nor, when they arrived at the pond, and found Mr. Aner- 
ley superintending the operations of two young anglers, did 
he consider it necessary to tell his father that Annie Brunei 
was going with them. Perhaps she had slipped out of his 
mind altogether. Perhaps he fancied he had no right to re- 
veal the count’s private arrangements. At all events Miss 
Brunei’s name was not at that time mentioned. 

“ The stickleback,” observed Mr. Anerley, sententiously, 
when they drew near, “ must be of very ancient lineage. Any 
long-continued necessity on the part of any animal produces 
a corresponding organ or function ; can you explain to me, 
therefore, why Scotchmen are not born with a mackintosh ? ” 

“ No,” said Dove. 

“ Because Nature has not had time to develop it. You ob- 
serve that my stickleback here, whom I have just caught, 
has had time to acquire special means of defence and attack. 
I, a man, can only clumsily use for defence or attack limbs 
which are properly adapted for other purposes — ” 

“ Which proves that mankind has never experienced the 
necessity of having specially destructive organs,” said Will, 
to Dove’s great delight. 

She knew not which, if either, was right ; but the philoso- 
pher of Chestnut Bank had such a habit of inflicting upon his 
woman-kind theories which they did not understand, and could 
not contradict, that she had a malicious pleasure in witness- 
ing what she supposed was his discomfiture. 

“ It serves you right, papa,” she said. “You presume on 
our ignorance, when you have only mamma and me. Now 
you have somebody to talk to you in your own way.” 

“ When I observed,” continued Mr. Anerley, “ that man- 
kind had no special organ of attack and defence, I ought to 


JN SILK A TTIRE, 


have excluded women. The tongue of woman, an educa- 
tional result which owes its origin to — ” 

“ Don’t let him go on, Dove,” said Will, “ or he’ll say some- 
thing very wicked.” 

“ Has papa been talking nonsense to you all day. Carry ?*’ 
asked Dove. 

“ No,” said the matter-of-fact Carry, “ it was the story of the 
‘ King of the White Bears.’ ” 

“ I pghesumed on theigh ignoghance,” said Mr. Anerley, 
mimicking his adopted daughter’s pronunciation. 

“ We must give him up, Dove,” said Will. “A man who 
will employ ridicule in a scientific argument is not worth an- 
swering. If he were not my father, I should express my 
feelings more strongly ; as it is — ” 

Here Mrs. Anerley appeared, her pretty, kindly face lighted 
up by some unusual and pleasurable excitement. She was 
almost out of breath, too. 

“ Hubert, do you know what’s going to happen ? ” 

“ Never having been able, my dear, to calculate the prob- 
able line of your actions — ” 

“ Be quiet. The bishop is coming to open the church, 
when the alterations are complete. And Mrs. Bexley says 
that as their house is so far off, he will lunch with us.” 

“ Dear me ! ” observed Mr. Anerley, “ a bishop ! I shall 
become quite respectable. What sort of wine will the exalted 
creature propose to drink — if a bishop drinks at all ? ” , 
There will be several clergymen, you know, and — ” 

“ With a bishop in the house, shall I be able to see any les- 
ser lights? I shall allow you women to sit down in the 
chair he has used, as you all do when the Prince of Wales 
appears in public. There is a Hindoo custom resembling 
this — not wholly a religious observance, you know — ” 

Mr. Anerley stopped,, perhaps luckily ; pretending to have 
a dreadful struggle with an obstinate stickleback. 

“ Mr Bexley is charmed with the embroidery that Dove 
has done for the altar-cloth,” continued Mrs. Anerley; “and 
even poor old Mr. Ribston came hobbling up to me and said 
‘ as it was werry nice indeed : only, ma’am, I should ha’ pre- 
ferred it without the bits o’ red, which is the mark of the Scar- 
let Woman. Not as I mean,’ he said, though, ‘ that either 
you, ma’am, or Mrs. Bexley, would turn us into Papishes with- 
out our knowin’ of it ; only there’s some games up as 1 hear 
of, and one has to be p’tickler, and not be mixed up wi’ 
them as is ruinin’ the Church.’ ” 

“Very proper, too,” said Mr. Anerley, having arranged the 


GOOD-BYE. 


8t 

stickleback question. “ I should think that old Ribston fan- 
cied he had hit you and Dove pretty hard there. Would you 
think Dove was a pupil of the Scarlet Woman, Carry ? ” 

“ Who is the Scarlet Woman ? ” said Carry, with her big 
brown eyes staring. 

“ Mother Redcap,” said Mr. Anerley. A relation of the 
old woman who lived in a shoe.” 

“ Hubert,” said Mrs. Anerley, sharply, “ you may teach the 
children stickleback fishing, but you’d better leave other 
things alone. You may be pulling down more than you can 
build up again, as Mr. Ribston said about these old pillars 
in the nave.” 

“ Mr. Ribston, my dear, is not a reflective man. He la- 
njents the destruction of anything old, not seeing that as we 
destroy antiquities so the years are making other antiquities. 
Mamma, box that girl’s ears ! she is laughing at* me.” 

In the evening Will had to walk over to Balnacluith Place, 
in order to complete the arrangements with the count as to 
their starting on the Monday evening. Dove went with him ; 
and when they got there the red sunset was flaring over the 
gloomy old house, and lighting up its windows with streaks 
of fire. Here and there, too, the tall bare trunks of one or 
two Scotch firs turned scarlet against the faint gray-green of 
the east; and the smooth river had broad splashes of crimson 
upon it, as it lay down there among the cool meadows, appar- 
ently motionless. 

Will’s reticence was unfortunate. They had scarcely be- 
gun to talk about their journey when Count Schonstein men- 
tioned something about Miss Brunei’s probable arrange- 
ments. 

“ Is Miss Brunei going with you ? ” said Dove, her soft eyes 
lighting up with a faint surprise. • 

“ Yes. Didn’t you know ? ” replied Count Schonstein. 

“ She is going to take a short holiday, and we hope to be 
honored by her presence at Schonstein.” 

Dove looked at Will ; he was examining a cartridge-pouch 
the count had brought in, and did not observe her inquiring 
glance. 

On their way home, he observed that she was very quiet. 
At first he thought she was subdued by the exceeding beauty 
of the twilight, which had here and there a yellow star 
lying lambent in the pale gray ; or that she was listening to 
the strong, luscious music of the nightingales, which abound 
in the valley of St. Mary-Kirbv. Presently, however, he saw 
6 


S2 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


that she was wilfully silent, and then he asked her what had 
displeased her. Her sense of wrong was of that tremulous 
and tender character which never reached the length of in- 
dignation ; and just now, when she wanted to be very angry 
with him, she merely said, not in a very firm voice, 

“ I did not think you would deceive me, Will.” 

“ Well, now,” he said, “ you have been wasting all this 
beautiful time and annoying yourself by nursing your griev- 
ance silently. Why didn’t you speak out at once. Dove, and 
say how I have deceived you ? ” 

“ You said you were going abroad on business.” 

“ So I am.” 

“ Count Schonstein talks as if it were merely a pleasure 
excursion.” 

“ So it is^ to him.” 

“ Miss Brunei is going with you.” 

“Well?” 

“ You know quite well what I mean, she said, petulantly. 
“ Why didn’t you tell me she was going with you ? Why did 
you conceal her going from me, as if there was no confidence 
between us ? ” 

“ My darling, I didn’t conceal her going from you. I didn’t 
tell you, because her going was no business of mine — because 
— because — ” 

“ Because you thought I would be jealous,” she said, with 
a little wilful color in her face. 

“ My darling,” said Will, gravely, “ you don’t consider w'hat 
you’re saying. You wrong Annie Brunei quite as much as 
you wrong me and yourself. I don’t know what you’ve seen 
in her to. warrant your supposing for an instant that — ” 

“ Oh, Will, Will,” she cried, passionately, imploringly, 
“ don’t talk like that to me, or you’ll break my heart. Be 
friends with me, Will — dear Will — for if I’m not friends with 
you, what’s the use of living ? And I’m very sorry. Will ; and 
I didn’t mean it ; but all the same you should have told me, 
and I hate her /” 

“ Now you are yourself, Dove,” he said, laughing. “ And if 
Miss Brunei were here just now, you would fling your arms 
round her neck, and beg her to forgive you — ” 

“ I am never going to fling my arms round any person’s 
neck,” said Dove, “except, perhaps, one person — that is, 
when the person deserves it — but I don’t think he ever will ; 
and as for Miss Brunei, I don’t know what business she has 
going abroad just now, and I don’t know why I should be so 
fond of her, although I hate her quite the same ; and if she 


GOOD-BYE. 83 

were here just now, as you say, I would tell her she ought to 
be ashamed of herself, cheating people into liking her.” 

“You talk very prettily, Dove, but with a touch of incoher- 
ence. You ought to hear how Annie Brunei speaks of you; 
and you ought to know what a kindly, tender, almost motherly 
interest she has in you.” 

“ Then you have seen her lately ? ” said Dove, peeping up. 

“ Yes — once or twice.” 

“ Does shfe know that we are to be married ? ” asked Dove, 
looking down again. 

“ She knows that we are to be magghied. You foolish lit- 
tle darling, she saw it in your face the moment you met her ; 
and you might have seen that she knew your secret.” 

“ Actresses are witches, dear,” said Dove, gravely. “ They 
know everything.” 

“ They are like witches in having suffered a good deal of 
persecution at the hands of the ignorant and vulgar.” 

“ Is that me, dear ? ” she asked, demurely. “ No ? Then 
I sha’n’t make fun any more. But if you’re really going away 
on Monday evening. Will, I want to bid you good-bye to-night 
— and not before all the people, you know ; and I’ll tell you 
all that you have got to do when you are away in thinking 
about me. There’s the moon getting up now behind Wood- 
hill church ; and every night at ten. Will, all the time you are 
away. I’ll go up to my room and look up at her, and you’ll do 
the same, darling, won’t you, just to please me ? And then 
I’ll know that my Will is thinking of me, and of St. Mary- 
Kirby ; and then you’ll know, darling, that I’m thinking of 
you, and if I could only send a kiss over to you. I’d do it. It 
won’t be much trouble to you, will it ? And if I’m lonely and 
miserable all the day, and if ‘ The Coulin,’ that I can’t help 
•playing sometimes, makes me cry, I shall know that at ten 
you and I will be able to speak to each other that way — ” 

“ I’ll do everything you ask me,” said Will to her, gently ; 
“ but — but don’t play ‘ The Coulin ’ any more, Dove.” 

“ Why, dear .? Ah ! you said it was the parting of death. 
Why did you say that ? ” 


84 


JN SILK A TTIRE. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ MIT DEINEN SCHONEN AUGEN.^^ 

Well, the first time Will fulfilled his promise to Dove was 
when he and Annie Brunei, Mrs. Christmas and the count (Her- 
mann and another of the count’s servants being in another 
carriage), were rolling southward in the Dover express. Here 
and there he caught a glimpse of the moon, as it loomed sud- 
denly and nearly over the top of some tall embankment ; but 
somehow his attention was so much taken up by the young 
girl opposite him, that Dove and her pretty request were in 
danger of being forgotten. 

Besides themselves, there was only a young Frenchman in 
the carriage — a grave, handsome young man, with melan- 
choly black eyes and a carefully waxed mustache — who sat 
and covertly stared at Miss Brunei all the way. Perhaps he 
had seen her in the theatre; but, in any case, the beautiful, 
clear, dark artist-face of the young actress, with its large deep 
eyes, was quite sufficient to imbue a susceptible young French- 
man with a vague sadness. Fortunately, she dropped a 
glove ; and he, having picked it up and handed it to her with 
a grave and earnest politeness, leaned back in his seat, ap- 
parently thrilled with a secret happiness. 

The little party was in very good spirits ; and Annie Brunei 
was especially bright and cheerful in her subdued, motherly 
way. Will suddenly found himself released from the irritating 
pleasure of having to humor the whims and coax the moods 
of an almost childish, petulant, pretty, and engaging girl, and 
talking instead with one who seemed to have a gift of beau- 
tifying and ennobling everything of which she spoke. What- 
ever she mentioned, indeed, acquired a new importance in 
his eyes. He had never discovered so many things of which 
he would like to know more ; he had never discovered that 
the things he did know, and the places he had seen, and the 
people he had met, were so full of life, and color, and dra- 
matic interest. 

“ You two people talk like children going off for holidays,” 
said the count, disentangling himself from a series of discur- 
sive theatrical reminiscences offered him by Mrs. Christmas. 

“ So we are,” said Annie Brunei. 

The count introduced 'll imself into the conversation; and 
then the color and light seemed to Will to die out of it. The 


MIT DEINEN SCHONEN AUGENE 


8S 


fact was, Count Schonstein was very much pleased to see 
that Miss Brunei took so kindly to his friend, as it rendered 
his own relations with her more secure. He was very grate- 
ful to Will, also, for coming with him on this particular excur- 
sion ; knowing thoroughly that he could never have induced 
Mrs. Christmas and Miss Brunei to go with him alone. These 
considerations were well enough in their way ; but at the 
same time he did not think it quite fair that Will should have 
all the pleasure of Miss Brunei’s society to himself. To be 
shut out from their conversation not only annoyed him, but 
made him feel old. As it was. Miss Brunei had a provok- 
ing habit of speaking to him as if he really were old, and 
only capable of affording her information. Worst of all, she 
sometimes inadvertently spoke of herself and Will as “ we ; ” 
and referred to the count as if he were some third party whom 
the two young people were good enough to patronize. 

“But then,” said the count to himself, “she has not seen 
Schonstein. Anerley is perhaps a more suitable companion 
for her ; but then she knows that he has no money, and that 
he has already mated himself. Once I have shown her Schon- 
stein, I shall be able to dispense with his services : she will 
need no further inducement. And I never should have had 
the chance of showing her Schonstein but for him.” 

The night was so fine that they all remained on deck during 
the short passage over to Calais, walking up and down in the 
pale moonlight, that lay along the sea and touched the great 
black funnels, and the tall, smooth masts and yards. Look- 
ing down upon the deck beneath. Will had seen Hermann 
tenderly wrap up the fat little English girl who was to be 
Miss Brunei’s maid, and who was very melancholy indeed 
over parting with her mother, the count’s Kentish house- 
keeper; and then the stalwart keeper went forward to the 
bow and smoked cheap cigars fiercely for the rest of the 
voyage, thinking, probably, of the old companions he was 
going to see. 

The count was very quiet. He scarcely spoke. He sat 
down and wrapped himself up in his great Viennese travel- 
ling-coat, allowing Will and Miss Brunei to promenade the 
deck. It was simply impossible for any one to become sick 
on such a night ; but I do not think the count considered 
himself quite safe until he stood, tall, stout, and pompous, on 
Calais pier. 

“ You are a good sailor, I suppose, Anerley t ” he said, 
grandly. “ I do think it ridiculous ^hen a man can’t cross 
the Channel without becoming sick.” 


86 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


“A man would have to try very hard to be sick to-night. 
Hermann, you speak French, don’t you ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said the tall keeper, as he bundled the trem- 
bling Polly up the gangway, and then began to look out for 
such articles of his master’s luggage as had not been booked 
to Cologne. 

They were going the Rhine way, instead of via Paris and 
Strasburg ; and so in due time they found themselves in the 
Brussels and Cologne train. We have at present nothing to 
do with their journey, or any incident of it, except that which 
befel two of the party that evening in a commonplace hotel 
overlooking the Rhine. 

“ Romance in a Rhine hotel ! ” exclaims the reader ; and 
I submit to the implied indignation of the protest. 

Perhaps the first time you saw the Rhine you thought ro- 
mance possible ; perhaps you went round that way on your 
wedding trip : but, in any case, the man who lingers about the 
noble river, and hides himself away from hasty tourists in some 
little village, and finds himself for the first time in the dream - 
land of the German ballad-singers, with a faint legendary 
mist still hanging about the brown ruins, and with a mystic 
glamour of witchcraft touching the green islands and the dark 
hills, may forget the guide-books and grow to love the Rhine. 
Then let him never afterward use the river as a highway. 
The eight or ten hours of perspiring Cockney — the odor of 
cooking — the exclamations and chatter — the paraspl-and- 
smelling^-bottle element which one cannot help associating 
with the one day’s journey up or down the Rhine, are a night- 
mare for after-years. One should never visit the Rhine twice, 
unless one has plenty of time, no companions, an intimacy 
with German songs, a liking for Riidesheimer, a stock of 
English cigars, and a thorough contempt for practical English 
energy. 

Yet it was the Rhine did all the mischief that night. Imag- 
ine for a moment the position. Tl\ey had arrived in Cologne 
somewhere about five in the afternoon, and had driven to the 
Hotel de Hollande, which, as everybody knows, overlooks 
the river. Then, they had dined. Then they had -^walked 
round to the Cathedral, where the count proudly contributed 
asTngle Friedrich towards helping King William in his efforts 
to complete the building. -Then they had gone to one of the 
shops opposite, where the count, in purchasing some photo- 
graphs, insisted on talking German to a man who knew English 
thoroughly. Then he had stalked into Jean Marie Farina’s 
place at the corner, and brought out one of Farina’s largest 


“ MIT DEINEN SCHONEN^ AUGEN: 


87 


bottles for Miss Brunei ; he carrying it down to the hotel, the 
observant townspeople turning and staring at the big English- 
man. By this time the sun had gone down, the twilight was 
growing darker, the faint lights of the city beginning to tell 
through the gray. 

There were gardens, said the porter, at the top of the 
hotel — beautiful gardens, looking down on the river ; if the 
gentlemen wished to smoke, wine could be carried up. 

“ No,” said the count. “ I must commit the rudeness of 
going off to my room. I did not sleep, like you people, in 
the train.” 

So he bade them good-night and disappeared. 

“ But we ought to go up and see the gardens,” said Annie 
Brunei. 

“ I think so,” said Will. “ Mrs. Christmas, will you take 
my arm ? It is a long climb. And now that you have surren- 
dered yourself to my care, may I recommend a luxury pecul- 
iar to the place ? One ought never to sit in Rhine gardens 
without sparkling Muscatel, seltzer-water, and ice, to be drank 
out of frosted Champagne-glasses, in the open air, with 
flowers around us, and the river below — ” 

“ You anticipate,” said Miss Brunei. “ Perhaps the gar- 
dens are only a smoking-room, filled with people.” 

The “ gardens ” turned out to be a long and spacious bal- 
cony, not projecting from the building, but formed out of the 
upper floor. There were tables and chairs about; and a 
raised seat which ran along the entire front. The pillars 
supporting the roof were wound round with trailing ever- 
greens, the tendrils and leaves of which scarcely stirred in 
the cool night air ; finally, the place was quite empty. 

Annie Brunei stepped over to the front of the balcony and 
looked down ; then a little cry of surprise and delight escaped 
her. 

‘‘Come,” she said to Mrs. Christmas — “come over here ; 
it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen ! ” 

Beautiful enough it was — far too beautiful to be put down 
here in words. The moon had arisen by this time — the yel- 
low moon of the Rhine — and it had come up and over the 
vague brown shadows of Deutz until it hung above the riv,er. 
Where it touched the water there was a broad lane of broken, 
rippling silver; but all the rest oMhe wide and silent stream 
was of a dulCblive hue, on which (looking from this great 
height) you saw the sharp black hulls of the boats. Then 
far along the opposite bank, and across the bridges, and 
down oi> the quays underneath were glittering beads of orange 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


'hi 

fire ; and on the river there were other lights — moving crim- 
son and green spots which marked the lazy barges and the 
steamers out there. When one of the boats came slowly up, 
the olive- green plain was cleft in two, and you saw waving 
lines of silver widening out to the bank on either side ; then 
the throb of the paddle and the roar of the steam ceased ; a 
green lamp was run up to the mast-head, to beam there like 
a fire-fly ; the olive river grew smooth and silent again ; and 
the perfect, breathless peace of the night was unbroken. A 
clear, transparent night, without darkness ; and yet these 
points of orange, and green, and scarlet burned sharply; 
and the soft moonlight on the river shone whiter than phos- 
phorus. So still a night, too, that the voices on the quays 
floated up to this high balcony — vague, echo-like, undistin- 
guish able. 

Annie Brunei was too much impressed by the singular 
loveliness of the night and of the picture before her to say 
anything. She sat up on the raised bench ; and looking out 
from between the pillars, Will could see her figure, framed, 
as it were, by the surrounding leaves. Against the clear 
dark sky her head was softly defined, and her face caught a 
pale tinge of the moonlight as she sat quite still and seemed 
to listen. 

He forgot all about the iced wine and his cigar. He for- 
got even Mrs. Christmas, who sat in the shadow of one of 
the pillars, and also looked down on the broad panorama be- 
fore her. 

Then Miss Brunei began to talk to him ; and it seemed 
to him that her voice was unusually low, and sad, and tender. 
It may have been the melancholy of the place — for all 
very beautiful things haunt us and torture us with a vague, 
strange longing — or it may be that some old recollections 
had been awakened within her ; but she spoke to him with a 
frank, close, touching confidence, such as he had never seen 
her exhibit to any one. Nor was he aware of the manner in 
which he reciprocated these confidences ; nor of the danger- 
ous simplicity of many things he said to her-^suggestions 
which she was too much preoccupied to notice. But even in 
such rare moments as these, when we seem to throw off the 
:old attitudinizing of life and speak direct to each other, 
heart to heart, a double mental process is possible, and we 
may be unconsciously shaping our wishes in accordance with 
those too exalted sentiments born of incautious speech. And 
Will went on in this fashion. The past was past ; let no harm 
be said of it ; and yet it had been unsatisfactory to him. 


THE OUTCAST. 


59 


There had been no generous warmth in it, no passionate glow ; 
only the vague commonplaces of pleasure, which left no throb 
of regret behind them. And now he felt within him a capa- 
city, a desire, for a fuller and richer life — a new, fresh, hope- 
ful life, with undreamed-of emotions and sensations. Why 
should he not leave England forever ? What was England 
to him ? With only one companion, who had aspirations like 
his own, who could receive his confidences, who might love 
with a passion strong as that he knew lay latent in his own 
heart, who had these divine, exalted sympathies — 

He was looking up at the beaytjful face of the young girl, 
cold and clear-cut like marble, in the moonlight ; and he was 
not aware that he had been thinking of her. All at once 
that horrible consciousness flashed in upon him like a bolt of 
consuming fire; his heart gave one big throb,, and he almost 
staggered back as he said to himself, with remorse, and horror, 
and shame. 

Oh God ! I love this woman with my whole soul ; and 
what shall I say to my poor Dove ? ” 

She sat up there, pure and calm, like some glorified saint, 
and saw nothing of the hell of contending emotions which 
raged below in her companion’s breast. Unconscious of it 
all, she sat. and dreamed the dreams of a happy and con- 
tented soul. As for him, he was overwhelmed with shame, 
and pitypand despair. And as he thought of Dove, and St. 
Mary-Kirby, the dull, sonorous striking of some great bell 
suddenly reminded him of his promise. 

He hastily pulled out his watch — half-past ten, English 
time. She, down in the quiet Kentish vale, had remembered 
his promise (indeed, had she not dreamed of it all day ?), 
had gone to her window, and tenderly thought of her lover, 
and with happy tears in her eyes had sent him many a kindly 
message across the sea ; he — what his thoughts had been at 
the same moment he scarcely dared confess to his awakened 
self. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE OUTCAST. 

“ Quite true, my dear,” said Mr. Anerley, gently. “ If I 
had risen at six, gone and dipped myself in the river, and 
then taken a walk, I should have been in a sufficiently self- 
satisfied and virtuous frame of mind to have accompanied 


90 


JN SILK A TTIRE. 


you to chiwch. But I try to avoid carnal pride. Indeed, I 
don’t know how Satan managed to develop so much intoler- 
able vanity, unless he was in the habit of rising at a prodig- 
iously early hour and taking a cold bath.” 

“ Oh, papa, how dare you say such a thing } ” said a soft 
voice just beside him ; and he turned to the open breakfast- 
room window to see Dove’s pretty face, under a bright little 
summer-bonnet, looking in at him reproachfully. 

“ Come, get away to church, both of you,” he said. 
“ There goes the cracked bell.” 

So Mrs. Anerley and Dove went alone to church; the 
former very silent and sad. The tender little woman could 
do nothing for this husband of hers — nothing but pray for 
him, in an inaudible way, during those moments of solemn 
silence which qccur between divisions Of the service. 

A quarter of an hour afterward Mr. Anerley rose, and also 
walked along to the little gray building. All the people by 
this time were inside, and as he entered the church-yard the 
choir was singing. He sat down on one of the grave-stones 
that were placed among the long, green, rank grass ; and, 
having pulled his straw hat over his forehead, to shelter his 
eyes and face from the strong sunlight, he listened in a 
dreamy way, to the sweet singing of the children and the 
solemn and soft intoning of the organ. 

It was his favorite method of going to church. 

“ You get all the emotional exaltation of the service,” he 
used to say, “ without having your intellect ruffled. And 
when the children have done their singing, instead of listen- 
ing to a feeble sermon, you sit out in the clear sunlight and 
look down on the quiet valley, and the river, and the trees.” 

So he sat, and listened, and dreamed, while the softened 
music played upon his fancies, and produced a moving pano- 
rama of pious scenes — of the old Jew-life, the early Christian 
wanderings, the mediaeval mysteries, and superstitions, and 
heroisms. 

“ How fortunate religion has been,” he thought, “ to se- 
cure the exclusive aid of music and architecture ! Philoso- 
phy and science have had to fight their way single-handed ; 
but she has come armed with weapons of emotional coercion 
to overawe and convince the intellectually unimpressionable. 
In a great cathedral, with slow, sonorous chanting reverberat- 
ing through the long stone galleries, and tapers lighted in 
the mysterious twilight, every man thinks it is religion, not 
art, which almost forces him down upon his knees.” 

• Here the music ceased abruntlyy and presently there was 


THE OUTCAST. 


91 


a confused murmur of syllables — the clergyman either 
preaching or reading. 

“ Sermons are like Scotch bagpipes,” said Mr. Anerley to 
himself, as he rose and left the church-yard to wander down 
to the river-side. “ They sound very well when one doesn’t 
hear them.” 

That very day there was a conspiracy formed against the 
carnal peace of mind of this aimlessly speculating philoso- 
pher. Mr. Bexley’s sermon had been specially touching to 
the few ladies who attended the little church ; and the tender, 
conjugal soul of Mrs. Anerley was grieved beyond measure 
as she thought of the outcast whom she had left behind. 
Rhetorical threats of damnation passed lightly over her ; in- 
deed, you cannot easily persuade a woman that the lover of 
her youth has any cause to fear eternal punishment ; but a 
far less sensitive woman than Mrs. Anerley might well have 
been saddened by that incomprehensible barrier which ex- 
isted between her and her husband. 

“ And it is only on this one point,” she thought to herself, 
bitterly. ‘‘ Was there ever such a husband as he is — so for- 
bearing, and kind, and generous ? Was there ever such a 
father as he has shown himself to be, both to Will and to this ‘ 
poor Dove ? And yet they talk of him as if he were a great 
sinner ; and I know that Mrs. Bexley said she feared he was 
among the lost.” 

Be sure Mrs. Bexley did not gain in Mrs. Anerley’s esteem 
by that unhappy conjecture. From the moment of its utter- 
ance, the two women, though they outwardly met with cold 
courtesy, were sworn enemies ; and a feud which owed its ori- 
gin to the question of the eternal destiny of a human soul con- 
descended to exhibit itself in a bitter rivalry as to which of 
the two disputants should be able to wear the most stylish 
bonnet. Was it the righteousness of her cause, or her hus- 
band’s longer purse, which generally gave Mrs. Anerley the 
victory over the chagrined and mortified wife of the pastor ? 

But with Mr. Bexley Mrs. Anerley continued on the most 
friendly terms ; and on this day, so anxious was she, poor 
soul, to see her husband united to her in the bonds of faith, 
that she talked to Mr. Bexley for a few minutes, and begged 
him to call round in the evening and try the effect of spiritual 
c^qnsel on this sheep who had wandered from the fold. 

< (^r. Bexley was precisely the man to undertake such a re- 
spb'^ibility with gladness — nay, with eagerness. Many a 
tin ']] had he dined at Mr. Anerley’s house ; but being a gen- 
tlen (an as well as a clergyman, he did not seek to take advai. 


93 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


tage of his position, and turn the kindly after-dinner talk of 
the household into a professional stance. But when he was 
appealed to by the wife of the mentally sick man he responded 
joyously. He was a very shy and nervously sensitive man — 
as you might have seen by his fine, lank, yellow hair, the sin- 
gular purity of his complexion, the weakness of his eyes, and 
a certain spasmodic affection of the corner of his lips ; but he 
had no fear of ridicule when he was on his Master’s service. 
Mr. Anerley and he, indeed, were great friends ; and the form- 
er, though he used to laugh at the clergyman’s ignorance of 
guns and rods, and at his almost childish optimism, respected 
him as one honest man respects another. The rationalist 
looked upon the supernaturalisms of this neighbor of his with 
much curiosity, some wonder, and a little admiration. Yet 
he never could quite account for these phenomena. He could 
not understand, for instance, why one of the most subtle and 
dispassionate minds of our day should sadly address an old 
friend as from the other side of the grave, simply because the 
latter was removed from him by a few (to Mr. Anerley) unim- 
portant and merely technical doctrinal points. Mr. Bexley 
was a constant puzzle to him. Indeed, the firmest facts in 
Mr. Bexley’s theory of life were what a sensationalist would 
at once put down as delusions or mere hypotheses. He was 
full of the most exalted ideas of duty, of moral responsibility, 
of the value of fine shades of opinion and psychical experience. 
He worshipped Dr. Newman, whose verses he regarded as a 
new light thrown upon the history of the soul. He had a pas- 
sionate admiration for the Spectator; and shed, at least, a good 
deal of political enlightenment upon his parish by insisting on 
the farmers around reading each number as it was sent down 
from London. Mr. Bexley ought never to have been in the 
service of a State church. He had the “ prophetic ” instinct. 
Proselytism came as natural to him as the act of walking. 
He abhorred and detested leaving things alone, and letting 
them right themselves. This Kentish Jonah found a Nineveh 
wherever he went ; he was never afraid to attack it single- 
handed : and, most of all, he raised his voice against the mate- 
rialists and sensationalists — the destroyers of the beautiful 
idealisms of the soul. 

When one’s wife and her favorite clergyman enter into 
league against one’s convictions, the chances are that the c' 
victions will suffer. Such combinations are unfair. J'S 
are some men, for example, who would refuse to be atj 
by a doctor who was on very friendly terms with 
taker; they fear the chance of collusion, 


THE OUTCAST. 


93 


It was almost dusk when Mr. Bexley went round to Chest* 
nut Bank, and then he found Mr. Anerley seated outside, on 
a carved oaken bench, under some lime-trees fronting the 
lawn. He was alone, and on the rude table before him were 
some decanters and bottles, one or two fruit-plates, and a 
box of cigars. 

“Oh, good-evening, Mr. Bexley,” said the lost one. “Will 
you have a cigar ? ” 

“ Thank you.” 

“ Sit down. That’s claret next you, and there’s Still some 
sparkling Burgundy in the bottle. The children are very 
fond of ity-I suppose because it looks like currant-jelly in 
hysterics.’^ \ 

Cigars and claret don’t seem quite the avenue by which to 
approach an inquiry into the condition of a man’s soul; but 
Mr. Bexley was too excited to heed what he did. He had 
the proselytizing ecstasy upon him. He was like one of the 
old Crusaders abd^t to ride up to the gate of a godless Sara- 
cen city and demand its surrender. Did not Great-heart, 
when about to engage with the giant, refresh himself with the 
wine which Christiana carried ? 

“You were not at church this morning,” he said, carelessly. 

But his assumed carelessness was too evident ; his forte 
was not diplomacy. 

“ Well, no,” said Mr. Anerley, quietly ; he did not take the 
trouble to reflect on the object of the question, for he had 
been considering graver matters when Mr. Bexley arrived. 

“ You have not been to church for a long time,” continued 
the yellow-haired, soft-voiced preacher, insidiously, but nerv- 
ously. . “ Indeed, you don’t seem to think church-going of 
any importance.” 

Mr. Anerley made no answer. Then the other, driven out 
of the diplomatic method of approach into his natural manner, 
immediately said, 

“ Mr. Anerley, do you never think that it is a man’s duty to 
think about things which are not of this world ? Do you ex- 
pect always to be satisfied with worldly good } You and I 
have had long conversations together ; and I have found you 
so reasonable, so unprejudiced, so free to conviction, that I 
'•tn amazed you do not recognize the necessity of thinking 
cosomething beyond this life that we lead just now.” 

^ “ Cannot people think of these things outside a church, Mr. 
sporey ? ” he said ; but his face was quite grave, if not sad. 
tin^vou came into the garden just now, I was perplexing my- 
lleii with that vtry question. I was sitting wondering if L 


94 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


should die and become nothing, without having discovered 
how it was I came to live. It seems so singular that one 
should pass out of consciousness into the inorganic earth 
without having discovered what the earth is, and without hav- 
ing the least notion of how he himself came to be. Geology 
only presents you with a notion of tremendous time and 
change — it gives no clue to the beginning. And if there was 
no beginning, how is it that my brief consciousness only flick- 
ers up for a short time, and dies down again into darkness 
and night ? How did there come to be a beginning to my 
consciousness } ” 

Mr. Bexley was astounded and grieved. He was accus- 
tomed, even in that little parish, to find people who had pain- 
ful doubts about the Mosaic record of creation ; who seemed 
perplexed about the sun, moon, and stars having all been 
created in order to light up the earth ; and who accepted with 
joy and gladness any possible theory of reconciliation which 
gave them a more rational view of the world and their belief 
in the Bible at the same time. But he had not met a man 
who had passed to one side, as quite unworthy of attention, 
all theologic solutions of the difficulty whatever. 

The very novelty of the obstacle, however, only excited his 
Evangelical fervor. He avowed his object in having visited 
Chestnut Bank that evening (without, however, revealing at 
whose suggestion he had undertaken the task), and boldly en- 
deavored to grapple with the demon of unbelief which had 
possession of his friend’s mind. He insisted on the fallibility 
of human reason. He pointed out that, without religion, mo- 
rality was unable to make its way among the uneducated. He 
demonstrated that every age had its own proper religion, and 
that an age without a religion was on the brink of suicide. 
All these things, and many more, he urged with much elo- 
quence and undoubted sincerity, and at the end he was sur- 
prised to learn that his auditor quite coincided with every- 
thing he had uttered. 

“ I know,” he said, “ that the present attitude of the 
majority of intellectual men in this country is a dangerous 
and impossible one. Men cannot live in an atmosphere of 
criticism. What we want just now is a new gospel fitted for 
the times ; we want a crusade of some sort — a powerful be- 
lief that will develop all sorts o£ sympathetic emotions and 
idealisms, instead of leaving one a prey to cold analysis. •‘■’hfc> 
we haven’t got it ; and those who have gone beyond this 
flow of the last great religious flood find themselves strancF^^* 
on dry land, without a blade of grass or a drop of water \ 


THE OUTCAST 


9S 


sight. Give me a gospel, and I’ll take it with pleasure. 
Whether it be a new series of religious symbolisms, or a 
splendid system of ethics, demanding action, or even a belief 
in humanity as a supreme and beautiful power — anything 
that can convince me and compel me to admire, I will take. 
But I don’t want to deal in old symbols, and old beliefs, and 
old theories, that fit me no more than the monkey-jacket in 
which my mother sent me to school.” 

“You say you have got beyond us, and yet you acknowl- 
edge that you have been disappointed,” urged Mr. Bexley. 
“ Why not return to the Church, if only for personal satisfac- 
tion ? You cannot be happy in your present position ; you 
must be tormented by the most fearful doubts and anticipa- 
tions. Are you not afilicted by moments of utter darkness, in 
which you long for the kindly hand of some spiritual authority 
to assist you and comfort you ? In such perilous moments I 
believe I should go mad if I were to assure myself, for a sin- 
gle passing instant, that I was alone and unaided ; that I had 
been teaching lies and superstitions all my life ; that the 
world was a big machine, and we the accidental dust thrown 
out by its great chemic motions ; that all the aspirations of our 
soul, and the voice of conscience, and the standards of right 
at which we aim, were all delusions and mockeries. I would 
not have life on such terms. I should know that I only ex- 
isted through the brute ignorance and superstition of my 
stronger-made fellow-men not permitting them to kill me and 
all such as I, and then to seize our means of living. I should 
look forward to the time when these superstitions should be 
cleared away, and the world become a general scramble, 
handed over to those who had the longest claws and the 
fiercest teeth.” 

“ Then,” said Mr. Anerley, with a smile, “ if the first glimpse 
of change is likely to derange your intellect in that fashion, 
and force you to so many absurd conclusions, you are better 
w'here you are. And about those moments of spiritual dark- 
ness, and torture, and longing of which you speak — I do not 
understand what they are. I am never visited by them. I 
thank God I have a tolerable digestion.” 

“ Digestion ! ” repeated the other, bitterly. “ It all comes to 
that. Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow ye die ; and 
the only resurrection you hope for is to breathe the sunlight 
again as a buttercup or a dandelion. What is it, may I ask, 
entices you to remain in the position you occupy — that of 
being an honest man, credited with constant generous actions, 
kindly to your inferiors, and v.hat not ? Why should you be 


IN SILK A TTIRS. 


moral at all ? Why should you not, if it pleased you, go into 
any depths of dissipation and debauchery ? There is nothing 
to restrain you.” 

“ Pardon me, there is. If it were worth the trouble, I dare 
say I could convince you that my code of morality is not only 
more comprehensive and more strict than yours, but that it 
rests on more explicable and more permanent foundations. 
But it is not worth the trouble to convince a single man at a 
time in which we are waiting for some great and general ren- 
ovation.” 

So they went on, in the faint darkness, under the black 
branches and the gray sky. Mr. Bexley was not going to re- 
linquish hope at the very outset ; and he proceeded from 
point CO point, adducing all the considerations which made it 
very much more advantageous to be orthodox than to be not 
orthodox. He might have persuaded a man who was hover- 
ing between the two states to go over to the bosom of the 
Church; but his entreaties, and representations, and argu- 
ments had little effect upon a man w'ho was separated from 
him by the great chasm of a dawning era. 

“ Perhaps I may lament my present negative, critical atti- 
tude,” said Mr. Anerley, quite frankly, “ but I prefer it to 
yours. The successive tides of faith which pass over the 
world leave little circling eddies, and I have been caught in 
one of these ; I cannot tell in what direction the next great 
movement will be — I only know I shall not see it.” 

The end of it was, just then, that Mr. Anerley begged of 
his neighbor and counsellor to go in-doors and have some 
supper with them. Mr. Bexley, a little disheartened, but still 
confident in his spiritual power to overcome, some time or 
other, the strong resistance of the unconverted man’s heart, 
agreed ; and so they both went into the house and entereci 
the, dining-room, where the supper-table had just been, pre- 
pared. Mrs. Anerley started up, with her face red . as fire, 
when she saw her husband and the clergyman enter together ; 
and this obvious departure from her usual self-possessed and 
easy manner at once struck Mr. Anerley as being very pe- 
culiar. Nay, the poor little woman, feeling herself very guilty 
— harboring a secret notion that she had tried to entrap her 
generous and open-minded husband — was more than ordina- 
rily attentive and courteous to him. She was far more civil, 
and obliging, and formal tow^ards him than towards her stranger 
guest ; and she never by any chance lifted her eyes to his. 

Mr. Anerley saw it all, understood it all, and thought of it 
with an inward, pitying smile that was scarcely visible upon his 


THE OUTCAST. 


97 


lips. “ There is a creature,” he said to himself, who might 
convert any man to anything, if she had the least logical 
chance on her side.” 

He saw also, or perhaps feared, that this embarrassment 
and restraint would only make her uncomfortable for the even- 
ing; and so, in his kindly way, he called Dove to him. The 
young girl went over to him, and he put his arm round her 
waist, and said, 

“ Do you see that small woman over there, who looks so 
guilty ? She is guilty ; and that gentleman there, whom you 
have been accustomed to regard as the very ^pattern of ail 
the virtues in the parish, is her accomplice.” 

Mrs. Anerley started again, and glanced in a nervous way 
towards Mr. Bexley. Even her desire for her husband’s salva- 
tion was lost in the inward vow that never, never again would 
she seek for aid out of the domestic circle. 

“ Their secret having been found out. Dove, it remains to 
award them their punishment. In my royal clemency, how- 
ever, I leave the sentence in your hands.” 

“ What have they been doing, papa ? ” 

“ Ask them. Call upon the female prisoner to stand for- 
ward and say why sentence should not be pronounced against 
her.” 

“ It is not a subject for merriment, Hubert,” said his wife, 
blushing hotly, “ and if I did ask Mr. Bexley to speak to you 
as a friend — ” 

‘‘ You hear. Dove, she confesses to the conspiracy and also 
criminates her fellow-prisoner. If I had a black cowl, and 
some sherry at twelve shillings a dozen, I should sentence 
them to drink half a bottle each, having first bidden them 
a final and affectionate farewell.” 

‘‘As it is, papa,” said Dove, maliciously, “you had better 
give them some of that white Italian wine you are so fond of ; 
and if they survive — ” 

“ Mamma, order this girl to bed ! ” 

“ That is what poor papa says whenever any one beats him 
in an argument, or says his wine isn’t good,” said Dove to 
Mr. Bexley. 

But she went, nevertheless. For it was nearly ten o’clock, 
and although there was only a faint sickle of the moon now 
visible, that was still big enough to bear the thin thread of 
thought which so subtly connected her and her lover. She 
took out of her bosom a letter which she had received that 
morning, and she kissed it and held it in her hand, and said, 

7 


98 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


looking up to the pale starlight and the clear white cres- 
cent, 

“ Moon, moon, will you tell him that IVe got his letter, and 
that I read it twenty times — a hundred times over, and yet he 
doesn’t say a word about coming home ? Will you ask him 
when he is coming back to me — and tell him to come quick, 
quick, for the days are getting wearier and wearier ? Couldn’t 
you come down for a little minute, and whisper to me, and tell 
me what he has been doing all this time, and what he is look- 
ing like, and what he is saying to you just now ? Couldn’t 
you give me a little glimpse of him, instead of keeping him to 
yourself, and staring down as if you didn’t see anything at 
all ? And you might as well tell him that I shall begin and 
hate Miss Brunei if he doesn’t come back soon ; and I’ll play 
‘ The Coulin ’ all day to myself when I’m alone, and be as 
miserable and wretched as ever I please. But here’s a kiss 
for him, anyway : and you wouldn’t be so cruel as not to give 
him that ! ” 

And Dove, having completed her orisons, went down-stairs, 
with a smile on her sweet face — perhaps not thinking that 
the nightly staring at the moon, as the reader may perhaps 
suspect, had somewhat affected her brain. And she found Mr. 
Bexley more brilliant and eloquent than ever in his exposition 
of certain spiritual experiences; and she was in such a 
mood of half-hysteric delight and happiness that she could 
have put her arm around Mr. Anerley’s neck, and begged him, 
for her sake, to be a little, just a little, more orthodox. As 
it was, he had promised to go inside the church next Sunday ; 
and his wife was very happy. 


CHAPTER XV. 

SCHON-ROHTRAUT. 

Do you know the ballad of “ Schon-Rohtraut ” — the king’s 
daughter who would neither spin nor sew, but who fished, and 
hunted, and rode on horseback through the woods, with her 
father’s page for her only companion ? Was there any won- 
der that the youth grew sad, and inwardly cried to himself, 

“ O class ich doch ein Konigssohn war’, 

Rohtraut, Schon-Rohtraut lieb’ ich so sehr. 

Schweig’ stille, mein Herz ! ” 

One day they rested themselves under a great oak, ay;h'the 


SCHON-ROHTRA UT. 


99 


merry Schon-Rohtraut laughed aloud at her woe-stricken page 
and cried, 

“ Why do you look at me so longingly ? If you have the 
heart to do it, come and kiss me, then ! ” 

Whereupon the lad, with a terrible inward tremor, proba- 
bly, went up and kissed Schon-Rohtraut’s laughing lips. And 
they two rode quite silently home ; but the page joyously said 
to himself, “ I do not care now whether she were to be made 
empress to-day ; for all the leaves in' the forest know that I 
have kissed Schon-Rohtraut’s mouth.” 

There are many of us whose chief consolation it is to know 
that we have kissed Schon-Rohtraut’s mouth. The middle- 
aged man, getting a trifle gray above the ears, sits by the fire 
of a winter evening, and thinks of his own particular Schon- 
Rohtraut. 

“ I did not marry her ; but I loved her in the long-bygone 
time, and that is enough for me. I had my ‘ liberal educa- 
tion.’ If I had married her, perhaps I should not be loving 
her now ; and all my tender memories of her, and of that 
pleasant time, w'ould have disappeared. But now no one 
can dispossess me of the triumphant consciousness that it 
was my good-fortune to have kissed Schon-Rohtraut’s 
mouth.” 

There is much sympathy abroad upon this matter ; and I 
think we men never get nearer to each other than when we 
talk, after our wives have gone up-stairs to bed, of our lost 
loves. 

This was partly what Will Anerley said to himself as the 
little party sat under the white awning of the Konig Wilhelm^ 
and slowly steamed up the yellow-green waters of the Rhine. 
Not without a tremor of conscience he said it ; for he had a 
vague impression that he had been wantonly cruel to Dove. 
In the first moments of remorse after awaking to a sense of 
his present position, he had said, 

“ There remains but one thing to be done : I will at once 
return to England, and see Annie Brunei no more.” 

But a man approaching thirty has taught himself to be- 
lieve that he has great fortitude, especially where the ten- 
derer emotions are concerned ; and his next reflection was, 

“ My sudden departure will only be a revelation to her, 
and happily she knows nothing about it. Besides, have I 
not sufficient strength of mind to spend a few days in the 
pleasant society of this young girl without committing myself 
The mischief is done, and I must suffer for my carelessness ; 
but—” 


109 


JN SILK A TTIRE. 


But he would go on to Schonstein all the same, whither 
the two ladies had also consented to go. He did not deceive 
himself when he submitted to his own conscience this theory. 
He knew there was no danger of his disturbing Miss Brunei’s 
peace of mind, and he knew that Dove would have no further 
injustice done her. It was he who was to suffer. His 
thoughtlessness had permitted the growth of a hopeless pas- 
sion : it would never be known to her who had inspired it, 
nor to her whom it had dispossessed. He only should carry 
about with him the scourge ; and he was not without a hope 
that time and travel would for once accommodate themselves 
to an absurd superstition, and cure him of an unfortunate 
love. 

For the rest, he was almost glad that he had mentally 
kissed Schon-Rohtraut’s mouth. The consciousness of this 
passionate and hopeless attachment was in itself a pure and 
elevated feeling — a maiden delight which had no earthly el- 
ement mixed with it. It was so different from the kindly, 
affectionate interest he took in Dove — so different from that 
familiar liking which made him think nothing of kissing the 
young girl in an easy, -fraternal way. To think of kissing 
Annie Brunei ! The page could only look wonderingly and 
longingly at his beautiful mistress, at her pretty lips and 
nut-white teeth, and say, “ Schweig’ stille, mein Herz ! ” 

Quite assured of his own strength of will, he did not seek 
for a moment to withdraw himself from her, or raise any 
subtle barrier between them. In fact, he mockingly ex- 
plained to himself, that, as compensation for the pain which 
he would afterward have to suffer, he would now sup to the full 
the delicious enjoyment of her society. He would study as 
much as he chose the fine artistic head, the beautiful, warm, 
Italian color of her face, and her charming figure ; and he 
would gaze his fill into the deep-gray eyes, which were al- 
ways brightened up by an anticipatory kindliness when he 
approached. He remarked, however, that he had never seen 
them intensified by that passionate glow which he had 
observed on the stage: — the emotional earnestness which be- 
longed to what she called her “ real life ; ” there were in the 
eyes merely a pleased satisfaction and good-nature. 

“ When shall we get away from the Rhine ? ” she asked, 
as they were sailing past the black Loreleiberg. 

“ To-night,” said the count, “ we shall stop at Mayence, 
and go on by rail to Freiburg to-morrow. Then we shall be 
away from the line of the tourists.” 

This was an extraordinary piece of generosity ai:\d conces- 


SCHON-ROHTRA UT. 


\oi 

sion on the part of Count Schonstein ; for there was scarcely 
anything he loved more dearly on earth than to linger about 
the well-known routes, and figure as a German count before 
the Cockney tourists who crowded the railway-stations and 
tabks d htte. 

“ I am so glad ! ” said Miss Brunei. “ I cannot bear to be 
among those people. I feel as if I were a parlor-maid sit- 
ting in a carriage with her master and mistress, and fancying 
that she is being stared at for her impertinence by every 
passer-by. Don’t tell me it is absurd, Mr. Anerley; for I 
know it is absurd. But I cannot help feeling so ali the same. 
When anybody stares at me, I say to myself, ‘ Well, perhaps 
you’ve paid five, shillings to stare at me in the theatre, and 
you think, of course, you have the same right here.’ ” 

Will was very vexed to hear her speak so — partly because 
he knew that no reasoning would cure her of this cruel im- 
pression, and partly because he knew that she had some 
ground for speaking as she did. Continually, along that in- 
sufferable Cockney route he had seen her stared at and ogled 
by lank youths from Oxford Street or Mincing Lane, who 
had got a holiday from counter dr desk, and had hoisted a 
good deal of bunting to celebrate the occasion-bright green 
ties, striped collars, handkerchiefs marked with Adelina Patti’s 
portrait, white sun hats with 'scarlet bands, yellow dust-coats 
and dog-skin gloves.^In the intervals between their descents 
to the cabin, where mey drank cognac in preference to “ that 
beastly sour wine,” they would sit at a little distance, suck 
fiercely at their cheap cigars, and stare at the young actress 
as they were accustomed to stare at the baboons in the Zoo- 
logical Gardens, or at the royal family or at their favorite 
bar-maid. Then would follow confidential communications 
to Tom or ’Arry that she was very like “ Miss Trebelli,” 
and another head or tails for another “ go ” of brandy. 

“If these creatures were to get to heaven,” said Anerley to 
the count, in a moment of jealous spleen, “ they would ask 
their nearest way to the Holborn Casino.” 

It was partly this semi-Bohemian feeling which drew the 
young artiste towards Count Schonstein and Will Anerley, 
and allowed her to relish the society of people “ out of the 
profession.” Of the personal history of the count she had 
got to know something; and while she tolerated his self- 
sufficiency, and admired his apparent good-nature and even 
temper, she almost sympathized with him in his attitude 
towards society. It was the same people whom she had 
been taught to distrust who were in league against the poor 


ro2 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


count. They would not permit him to mix in their society, 
because, like herself, he was an adventurer, a person whose 
position was not secured to him by an ancient royal grant. 
Will she looked upon in another fashion. 

“You have been so much abroad, and mixed with so 
many people, that you seem not to belong to England. 
There is nothing English about you — nothing of vanity, and 
self-importance, and suspicion of outsiders.” 

But against this praise, as against the whole tone of her 
mind on the subject, he had uttered many a serious protest. 

“You blame us English with the impertinences of a few 
boys out for a holiday. You have heard stories of actors and 
actresses having received injuries from persons out of the 
profession, and you necessarily think there must be a mutual 
antagonism between the classes.” 

“ I don’t think anything about it,” she used to say ; “ I only 
know what my impression is, however it has been taught me. 
And I know that there is no sympathy between me and the 
people whom I try to amuse, and that they despise me and 
my calling. I don’t blame them for it ; but how can you ex- 
pect me to like them ? I don’t say they are narrow-minded, 
or prejudiced ; but I know that an English lady would not sit 
down to dinner with an actress ; that an English mother 
would think her son lost if he married an actress; and 
that a girl in good society who marries an actor is thought to 
have done •something equivalent to running away with her 
father’s footman.” 

■^hese were the bitter precepts which the Marchioness of 
Knottin^y had left with her daughter ; and they had been 
instilled into the girl at a time when beliefs become part of 
our flesh and blood. 

“ There are ignorant and ill-educated woman who think 
so,” said Will, calmly ; “ but you do an injustice to women of 
education, and good taste, and intelligent sympathies, when 
you suppose that every one — ” 

“ Let us take your own mother,” said Annie Brunei, hastily. 
“Would she be anxious, supposing she knew me, to intro- 
duce me to the rest of her acquaintances ? Would she ask 
me to visit her } Would she be willing that I should be a 
companion to that pretty little Dove ? ” 

“ I think I have answered all these questions before,” 
said Will. “ I tell you I can’t answer for all the women in 
England ; but for those of them whom I respect I can answer, 
and my mother is one of them. Has she not akeady al- 
lowed Dove to make your acquaintance ? ” 


SCIION-ROHTRA UT, 


103 


“ Because I was a curiosity, and she was allowed to come 
and look at me in my cage,” said the actress, with that 
cruel smile on her lips. 

“Miss Brunei,” said Will, simply and frankly, “ you are 
exhibiting far more prejudice than you will find in the wom- 
en you speak about. And I don’t know whether you will 
forgive my saying that it seems a pity one of your years 
should already possess such suspicions and opinions of other 
people — ” 

Wherewith she looked him straight in the face, with a clear, 
searching glance of those big and honest eyes of hers, which 
would have made a less disinterested advocate falter. 

“ Are you telling me what you believe to be true ? ” she 
said. 

“ Could I have any object in deceiving you ? ” 

“ You believe that your mother, a carefully pious and cor- 
rec": lady, who has lived all her life in the country, would 
dare to avow that she knew an actress .^” 

“ She would be proud to avow it.” 

“ Would she take me to church with her, and give me a 
seat in her pew, before all her neighbors ” 

“ Certainly she would.” 

“ And what would they think ? ” 

“ Perhaps the parish clerk’s wife,” said Will, with a 
mental glance at Mrs. Bexley, “ and the vet.’s wife, and a 
few women of similar extraction or education, might be 
shocked; but the ’educated and intelligent of them would 
only be envious of my mother. Wherever you go, you will 
find people who believe in witches, and the eternal damna- 
tion of unconverted niggers, and the divine right of the near- 
est squire ; but you don’t suppose that we are all partial idi- 
ots ? And even these people, if you went into St. Mary-Kir- 
by Church, would only have to look at you — ” 

“ You said something like that to me before,” she replied, 
with the same nervous haste to exhibit every objection — was 
it that she the more wished them to be explained away — 
“ and I told you I did not think much of the charity that was 
only extended to me personally because my face was not old 
and haggard. Suppose that I were old and painted, and — ” 

“ But if you were old, you would not be painted.” 

“ I might.” 

“ In that case, all the women would have some ground to 
be suspicious of you; and many of them would he ‘'^ngry be- 
cause you were allowed a luxury denied them by their hus- 
bands.^ Really, Miss Brunei, you do the ‘outsiders ’ an injus- 


104 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


tice,” he added, warming to his work. “ Stupid people and 
uneducated people do. not care for nice discriminations. 
They have always decided opinions. They like to have clear 
lines of thought and positive decisions. They ticket things 
off, and stick to their classifications through thick and thin, 
as if they were infallible. But you do wrong to care for the 
opinion of the stupid and uneducated.” 

‘‘ I should like to believe you, but how can I ? If, as you 
say, we have fallen so low as even to earn the contempt of 
the stupid — ” 

My darling,” he said, and then he stopped as if a bullet 
had gone through him. “I — I beg your pardon ; but I really 
fancied for the moment I was quarrelling with some of Dove’s 
nonsense — ” 

She smiled in such an easy way at the mistake, however, 
that he saw she put no importance upon it. 

“ I was going to say, how could stupid people exist if they 
did not despise their superiors in wit, and intellect, and 
artistic perception ? There is a man at my club, for instance, 
w'ho is intellectually, as he is physically, a head and shoul- 
ders taller than any of his brother members. What reputation 
has he ? Simply that of being ‘ an amusing young fellow, but 
— but very shallow, don’t you know ? ’ The empty-headed 
idiots of the smoking-room sit and laugh at his keen humor, 
and delicate irony, and witty stories ; and rather patronize and 
pity him in that he is weak enough to be amusing. A dull 
man always finds his refuge in calling a man of brighter parts 
than himself ‘shallow.’ You should see this friend of mine 
when he goes down into the country to see his relations ; how he 
is looked upon at the dinner-table as being only fit to make the 
women smile; and how some simpering fool of a squire, with 
nothing more brilliant in his library than a pair of hunting- 
boots, will grin compassionately to some other thick-headed 
boor, as though it were a ludicrous thing to see a man make 
himself so like a woman in being wdtty and entertaining.” 

“ And you think the women in these country-houses more 
intelligent and amusing than the men } ” 

“ God help country-houses when the women are taken out 
of them ! ” 

“What a large portion of my life have I wasted over this 
abominable ‘ Bradshaw ! ’ ” said Count Schonstein, coming up 
at that moment, and their conversation was for the present 
stopped. 

But Will now recognized more firmly than ever the invisible 
barrier that was placed between her and the people among 


SCHOJsr-ROHTRA UT. 


*05 

whom his life had been cast ; and, perhaps, for Dovers sake, 
he was a little glad that he could never look upon this too- 
charming young actress but as the inhabitant of another 
world. And sometimes, too, he involuntarily echoed Dove’s 
exclamation, “ You are too beautiful to be an actress ! ” 

When, after a pleasant little supper-party in the Mayence 
Hotel, at which they stopped, they parted for the night, Will 
congratulated himself on the resolution he had taken in the 
morning. It had been such a pleasant day ; and who was 
the worse for it ? He was sick at heart when he thought the 
time would come in which he could no more enjoy the keen 
pleasure of sitting near this tender creature, of watching her 
pretty ways, and listening to her voice. The love he felt for 
her seemed to give him a right of property in her, and he 
thought of her going forever away from him as an irreparable 
and painful loss. There was a quick, anxious throbbing at 
his heart as he attempted to picture that last interview ; for 
he had resolved that after their return to England he would 
not permit himself to see her again. He thought of her go- 
ing away from him without once knowing of that subtle per- 
sonal link which seemed to unite them in a secret friendship. 
She would be quite unconscious of the pain of that parting ; 
she might even think that he had yielded to the prejudices of 
which she had spoken, and had become ashamed of her 
friendship. 

“ That, too, must be borne,” he said, with a sigh. “ I can- 
not explain why I should cease to see her ; and yet we must 
never meet again after we return to England. If it were not 
for Dove, I should look out for some appointment abroad, 
and so get an excuse ; for it is hard to think that I must 
wound the self-respect of so gentle a creature by appearing to 
refuse her proffered friendship without a cause.” 

Then he sat down and wrote a long letter to Dove ; and 
for the first time he felt a great constraint upon him in so 
doing. He was so anxious, too, that she should not notice 
the constraint, that he wrote in a more than usually affec- 
tionate strain, and strove to impress her with the necessity of 
their being married very soon. 

“ Once married,” he said to himself, “ I shall soon forget this 
unhappy business. In any case, we must all suffer more or 
less ; and it is entirely owing to my carelessness in enjoying 
Miss Brunei’s society without looking at what it might lead 
to. But how should a man of my years have anticipated 
such a thing? Have I not been intimate with as pretty and 


io6 IN SILK ATTIRE, 

as accomplished women in all parts of the world, without ever 
dreaming of falling in love with them ? ” 

But no, there was no woman so pretty and charming as 
this one, he reflected. No one at all. And so, counting 
up in his mind, like a miser counting his guineas, one by one, 
the few days he would yet have to spend in the torturing de- 
light of being near to her, he got him to bed, and did not 
dream of St. Mary-Kirby. 

The next day they reached Freiburg, and here the count 
had a carriage awaiting them, with a couple of swarthy 
Schwarzwalders in his somewhat ostentatious livery. 

“ Now we are getting home,” he said, with a bland laugh, 
to Mrs. Christmas ; “ and you must have a very long rest 
after so much travelling. We shall see what the air of 
Schonstein will do for you, and a little of the Schonstein wine 
—eh, eh?” 

Their entrance to the Black Forest was inauspicious. It 
was towards the afternoon before they left Freiburg ; and the 
air was oppressively hot and sultry. Just as they were ap- 
proaching the Hollenthal — the Valley of Hell — a strange 
noise attracted Will’s attention ; and, looking over the back 
of the open carriage, he saw behind them a great red 
cloud, that entirely shut out the landscape. Two minutes 
afterward a sudden gust of wind smote them with the violence 
of a tornado ; they were enveloped in a dense lurid pall of 
sand, and before they could cover over the carriage great 
drops of rain began to fall. Then the far-off rumbling of 
thunder, and an occasional gleam of reflected lightning, told 
what was coming. 

The count looked much alarmed. 

“ The Hollenthal is a fearful place,” said he to the ladies : 
“ overhanging rocks, dark as pitch, precipices, you know, and 
— and hadn’t we better return to Freiburg ? That is, if you 
think you will be afraid. For myself, I’d rather go on to- 
night, and save a day.” 

“ Don’t think of turning on our account,” said Annie 
Brunei. “ Mrs. Christmas and I have been together in a 
good many storms.” 

So they went on, and entered that gloomy gorge, which is 
here the gate-way into the Black Forest. They had just got 
themselves closed in by the mighty masses of rock, when the 
storm thoroughly broke over their head. It was now quite 
dark, and the thin white shafts of lightning shot down through 
the ravine, lighting up the fantastic and rugged sides of 
the pass with a sudden sharpness. Then the thunder 


SCHON-ROHTRA UT. 


107 


crackled overhead, and was re-echoed in hollow rumbles, as 
if they were in a cavern with huge waves beating outside ; and 
the rain fell in torrents, hissing on the road, and swelling the 
rapid stream that foamed and dashed down its rocky channel 
by their side. Every flash whitened the four faces inside the 
carriage with a spectral glare ; and sometimes they got a 
passing glance down the precipice, by the side of which the 
road wound, or up among the overhanging blocks and crags 
of the mountains. 

Mrs. Christmas had been in many a thunder-storm, but 
never in the Hollenthal, and the little woman was terrified 
out of her life. At every rattling report of the thunder she 
squeezed Miss Brunei’s hand more tightly, and muttered 
another sentence of an incoherent prayer. 

“ Unless you want to kill your horses, count,” said Will, 
“ you’ll stop at the first inn we come to ; that is about a mile 
farther on. I can tell by the sound of the wheels that the 
horses are dragging them through the mud and ruts by main 
force ; and up this steep ascent that won’t last long.” 

“ Think of poor Mary and Hermann ! ” said Annie Brunei. 

“Where must they be ? ” 

“ I’ll answer for Hermann coming on to-night, if he’s alive,” 
said the count. “ And I hope that he and the luggage and 
Mary won’t be found in the morning down in that tremen- 
dous hole where the stream is. Bless my life ! did any mor- 
tal ever see such a place, and such a night ? What a flash 
that was ! ” 

It was about midnight when they reached the Stern Inn ; 
and very much astonished were the simple people, when they 
were waked up, to find that a party of visitors had ventured 
to come through the Hell Valley on such a night. 

“ And the hired carriage from Freiburg, Herr Graf,” said 
the chief domestic of the little hostlery ; “ it won’t come up 
the valley before the morning.” 

“ What does the fool say ? ” the count inquired of Will. 

“ He says that the trap with the luggage won’t come up to- 
night.” 

“ Bah ! ” said the count, grandly. “ Sie V^ssen giicht dass 
mein Forster kShimt ; und ef kdmM citJrcH/ zwaYizig — durch 
zwanzig — zwanzig — damme, get some supper, and mind your 


own business ! ” 

“ Yes, eef you please, my lord,” said the man, who knew a 
little English. 

The count was right. Hermann did turn up, and Mary, 


ai;d the luggage. 


But thc^ hired vehicle had been a badly 


IN SILK A TTIRB, 


TO^ 

fitting affair, and the rain had got in so copiously that Mary 
was discovered sitting with Hermann’s coat wrapped round 
her, while the tall keeper had submitted to be drenched with 
the inevitable good-humor of six-feet-two. Some of the lug- 
gage also was wet ; but it was carried into the great warm 
kitchen, and turned out and examined. 

At supper, the count, who was inclined to be merry, drank 
a good quantity of Affenthaler, and congratulated Mrs. 
Christmas on her heroic fortitude. Annie Brunei was quiet 
and pleasant as usual — a trifle grave, perhaps, after that pas- 
sage through the Hbllenthal. Will was at once so happy and 
so miserable — so glad to be sitting near the young Italian- 
looking girl, so haunted by the dread of having to separate 
from her in a short week or two — that he almost wished the 
storm had hurled the vehicle down into the bed of the stream, 
and that there he and Schon-Rohtraut might have been found 
dead together in the gray morning. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

SCHONSTEIN. 

‘‘ Welcome to Schonstein ! ” cried the count, gayly, as a 
turn in the road brought them in sight of a little hamlet, a 
small church, and beyond these — somewhat back from the 
village — an immense white house with green sunshades over 
the windows. 

“ Friend Anerley,” said the count to himself, “ if you ever 
had a thought of paying your addresses to the lady opposite 
you, your case is rather hopeless now /” 

Annie Brunei looked forward through the ruddy mist that 
the sunset was pouring over the picture before "them, and 
thought that it was very beautiful indeed. She paid ’little 
attention to the gaunt white house. But this little village, 
set in a clearing of the great forest— its brown woodeii 
houses, with their heavy projecting eaves and numerous 
windows; the small white church, with a large sundial 
painted in black on the gable ; the long, sloping hill behind, 
covered, away even to the horizon, with the black-o-reen 
pines of the Schwarzwald— all these things, steeped in the 
crimson glow of the western light, were indeed most charm- 
ing and picturesque. 

“ Why do they project the i'csfs SO -much?” she said, looV> 


SCHONSTSm, 


Tog 


ing especially at the inn of the little hamlet they were 
approaching. “ I thought these splendid old houses only 
existed in Swiss lithographs.” 

“ For the snow,” said the count, grandly, as if the intensity 
of the Black Forest winters belonged to him. “You should 
see a regular snow-storm in this country, with half the houses 
buried, the mail-coaches turned into sledges— why, every 
man who keeps a carriage here must keep it in duplicate — a 
wheel-carriage for the summer, a sledge for the winter.” 

With which they drove through the village. .Hans Halm, 
the sturdy innkeeper, was at the door of that palace in brown 
wood which he called his house ; and to Hermann’s hurried 
“ Wie geht’s ? Wie geht’s. Halm ? ” he returned a joyous 
“ Danke schon, Hermann.” 

“ But where is Crete ? ” said Hermann, in a bewildered 
way, to the English Mary who sat beside him in the second 
carriage. “ She not here ? She know I come ; she is not at 
the door of the inn — ” 

“ Who is Crete ? ” said Mary, who had made great friends 
with the big keeper in England. 

“ Why, Crete is — you kno\v, Crete.” 

At that moment Margarethe Halm was in the court-yard 
of the count’s house, whither she had stolen away from her 
father’s house, with her heart beating, and her ears listening 
for the sound of the carriage-wheels. A young, swarthy, 
handsome girl, with an innocent, dumb, animal-like fondness 
and honesty in her big, soft, black eyes, she stood there in 
her very best clothes — her Sunday head-dress of black vel- 
vet and gold beads ; her short petticoats and dress : her elabor- 
ately embroidered bodice ; her puffed white sleeves, coming 
down to the elbow, and there exposing her round, fat, sun- 
burnt arms. She it was with whom Hermann had sung, on 
the night before he left for England, the old ballad in which 
the wanderer bids farewell to his native vale ; and ever since, 
when she heard the pitiful words, 

“ Muss aus dem Thai, jetzt schciden, 

Wo alles Lust und Klang ; 

Das ist mein Herbstes Leid^en, 

Mein letzter Gang. 

Dich, mein stilles Thai, griiss’ ich tauscndMall 
Das ist mein Herbstes Leiden, 

Mein letzter Gang I ” 

— the big black eyes were wont to overflow, and her round 
brown cheeks grew wet with tears. She was always very silent, 
this Crete Halm, and you might have thought her dull ; but 


IN SILN attire. 


TIO 

she was so extraordinarily sensitive to emotional impressions, 
and there was such a mute, appealing look in her eyes for 
kindness and affection, that half the young men in the neigh- 
borhood would have given their ears to be permitted to walk 
about with Grete, and to go to church with her, and sing 
with her in the evening. There was the young school-mas- 
ter, for example — everybody knew how he came to have that 
ugly mark on his nose the last time he came home from 
Gottingen, to undertake the tuition of his neighbors’ chil- 
dren. It was at a beer-drinking bout, and a few got tipsy ; 
and one especially, Friedrich Schefer, disliking young Gers- 
bach, came round to him, and said, 

I see you have Margarethe Halm written on one of your 
books. If that is the name of your sweetheart, my friend 
Seidl says she is a rogue, and not to be trusted.” 

“ I challenge you,” says Gersbach, calmly, but blinking 
fiercely through his spectacles. 

“ Further, muthiger Herr Gersbach, my friend Seidl says 
your Margarethe Halm has half a dozen sweethearts, and 
that you give her money to buy presents for them.” 

“You are adiar, Friedrich Schefer!” shouts Gersbach, 
starting to his feet ; “ and I challenge you, ‘ ohne., ohne.^ ” * 

So the next morning the meeting took place ; and the un- 
fortunate Gersbach, who had had little practice, and was 
slow of eye, suddenly received a blow which divided the un- 
der part of his nose from the upper. The wound was sewed 
up again on the spot; but when Gersbach came home he 
looked a hideous spectacle, and though he never spoke of it, 
it leaked out that the wound had been got in fighting about 
Margarethe Halm. Gersbach was a great friend of Hans 
Halm’s, and spent every evening in the inn chatting with the 
keepers, or reading Greek, and drinking white-wine and water ; 
but Grete showed him no particular favor, and he seemed 
rather sad. 

“ Ach, Gott,” said Margarethe to herself, as she stood in 
the stone court-yard ; “ if they should not come, and if my 
father should see me — ” 

The next moment she caught sight of the two carriages 
coming along through the village; and her heart waxed a 
little faint as she saw that Hermann was sitting with a rosy 
young English girl by his side. 

The extended phrase is, “ Ich fordere Ihnen auf, ohne Miitzen, ohm 
Secundanten “ I challenge you, without either masks or seconds." Such 
a challenge being given (and it is only given in cases of extreme provo- 
cation), the duellists fight without cessation until one of them is put hors 
de combat. 


SCHCWSTEIN, 


TTt 


He never wrote to me anything about her,” she thought, 
in those scrawled letters which always ended, “ Denke an mich 
Gretchen ; und mit herzlichsten Griissen,’’^ etc. , etc. 

It seemed part of the tall head-forester’s pride that he 
would not permit himself to show any joyful surprise on find- 
ing that Crete was in the court-yard. On the contrary, with 
a curt “ ’n Abends Grete^^' he passed her, and busied himself 
in seeing that the count and his guests were being properly 
attended to by the servants, and that the luggage was being 
straightway carried in. 

Margarethe Halm, with her heart beating worse than ever, 
came timidly forward, then hung about a little, and at last 
ventured to say, with a little quivering of the mouth, 

“ Thou hast never even shaken hands with me, Hermann.” 

“ But thou seest that I am busy, Crete, and — Donnerwet- 
ter, idiot, look what you do with the lady’s box ! — and thou 
shouldst not have come at such a time, when the Herr Craf 
and his visitors have just arrived, and expect-^” 

He proceeded to give some more orders ; for the head- 
forester was an important man in Schonstein, and looked 
upon the count’s domestics as he looked upon his own keep- 
ers. But happening to turn, he caught a glimpse of what 
suddenly smote down his gruff pride — Margarethe Halm was 
standing by, with her soft black eyes brimming over with 
tears. Of course his stalwart arms were round her shoulders 
in a moment, and he was talking pettingly and caressingly to 
her, as if she were an infant, ever so many du's, and kleins^ 
and clients. 

The count’s big mansion, though it looked like a white- 
washed cotton-factory outside, was inside very prettily fur- 
nished ; and the long, low-roofed rooms, with their polished 
wooden floors and gayly decorated walls, were very cool and 
pleasant. There was a little garden about the house; the 
ground behind was laid out in^formal walks between avenues 
of acacias and limes ; there was a little pond with a plaster- 
boy in the centre, who spouted a thin jet of water through a 
pipe ; and there was, at the farther end of the trees, an artifi- 
cial ruin which the previous proprietor had failed to complete 
when the count took possession of the place. 

“ How lovely the village looks in that red light ! ” said 
Annie Brunei, as they all went out on the balcony of the room 
in which dinner had been laid for them. 

“ But the glory of Schonstein,” said the count, slapping Will 
on the shoulder— “ I say, the glory of Schonstein, my boy, 
lies in tho^e miles and miles of trees — the deer, my lad, the 


II2 


IN SILK^ TTIRR. 

'< 

deer! Ah, Miss Brunei, when I see you take a gun upon 
your shoulder, and march into the forest with us — like Diana, 
you know — ” 

He looked at her with the admiring smile of an elderly 
Adonis. Had he not the right, now that she had seen his 
splendor and his wealth "i Could he doubt any longer about 
his chance of winning that white little hand ? 

“ You are too kind, count,” she said, laughingly. “ Lady 
Jane will tell you that the very name of Diana has been always 
hateful to me.” 

It’s Diana Vernon she means,” said Mrs. Christmas, with 
a pretty little laugh, “ that she used to play before she became 
a grand lady. And play it she did, count, take my word for it, 
as well as ever you could think of ; and as for me, I never 
could understand how she so hated the part, which is a very 
good part for a young miss that can sing. I declare the dia- 
logue is quite beautiful.” 

Here she gave, with great feeling and correct, impassioned 
emphasis, some passages in which the Diana and Francis of 
that ridiculous drama talk bombastic sentiment to each other, 
causing Miss Brunei to laugh until the tears ran down her 
cheeks. 

“ You may laugh as you like. Miss Annie, but it’s a beau- 
tiful piece ; and how many years is it since you played it for 
my benefit ? ” 

“You’re making me quite old. Lady Jane,” protested the 
young actress. 

“ People have only to look at you, my dear,” continued the 
bright little old woman, “ and they won’t make a mistake. 
That was the very last time I went on the stage, count ; and 
do you know what I played } Why, Miami, in ‘ The Green 
JBushes.’ And Miss Annie, here, just to please me, consented 
to play Nelly O’Neil ; and, will you believe me, Mr. Anerley, 
I Stood iii the wings and crie^— me, an old woman, who had 
heard it all a thousand times— when she began to sing ‘The 
Green Bushes.’ Have you heard it, count ? — don’t you know 
the words of it } 

“ ‘ As I was a-walking one morning in May, 

To hear the birds singing, and see lambkins play, 

I espied a young damsel, so sweetly sung she, 

Down by the Green Bushes, where she chanced to meet me.’ 

There was Polly Hastings — she played Geraldine then — came 
to me after that last night, and said, solemnly, that she would 


SCffONSTEIN. 


113 


give herself over to the devil if he would only make her able 
to sing the ballad as Miss Annie sung it that night. The 
people in the pit — ” 

“ Mrs. Christmas will go on romancing all the evening, Mr. 
Anerley, if you don’t stop her,” said Miss Brunei. 

“ And poor Tom Mulloney — he played Wild Murtogh for 
me — do you remember. Miss Annie, that morning at rehear- 
sal, when they came and told him that his wife and the little 
boy were drowned .J* He didn’t speak a word — not a word ; 
he only shook a little, and was like to fall ; then he walked 
out, and he was never on the boards of a theatre again. He 
took to drinking as if he was mad ; and he was put in an 
asylum at last ; and they say he used to sing all his old songs, 
at the amateur concerts in the place, you know, better nor 
ever he had sung them in the theater — that was ‘ The Dance 
on the Flure,’ and ‘ The Jug o’ Punch,’ and ‘ Savourneen 
Deelish,’ and ‘ The Coulin ’ — ” 

“ The Coulin ! ” said Will, with a sort of chill at the heart : 
he had forgotten all about Dove, and St. Mary-Kirby ; and 
the remembrance of them, at that moment, seemed to reproach 
him somehow. 

“ Do you know ‘ The Coulin .? ’ ” asked Miss Brunei, won- 
dering at his sudden gravity. 

“ Yes,” said he, with an affectation of carelessness. It 
is one of Dove’s favorite airs. But she won’t.accept the mod- 
ern words as representing the song ; she will have it that the 
melody describes the parting of two friends — ” 

“Come, then,” said the count, briskly, “dinner is ready. 
Miss Brunei, you shall play us the — the what, did you say ?— - 
to-morrow, after the man has come from Donaueschingen to 
tune the piano. Not a bad piano, either, as you’ll see ; and 
now I don’t grudge having bought it along with the rest of 
the furniture, when I find that you will charm us with an , 
occasional song. Four hundred florins, I think it was ; butg. 
I don’t know.” 

As they retired into the long dining-saloon, where a suffi- • 
ciently good dinner was placed on the table, Hermann came 
out into the court-yard, surrounded by a lot of yelping little 
beagles, with short, stumpy legs, long ears, long noses, and 
sagacious eyes. Further, there was a huge brown mastiff, 
with long, lithe limbs and tremendous jaws, at sight of which 
Crete shrunk back, for the brute was the terror of the village. 

“ Go down, then, thou stupid dog, thou worthless fellow ! 
seest thou not the young lady is afraid } Ah, du guter Hund, 

8 


114 


IN SILK ATTIRE, 


du Rudolph, and so thou knowest me again ? Come along, 
Crete, he won’t touch you ; and we’ll go to see your father.” 

“ You won’t tell him I was waiting for you, Hermann } ” 
said the girl, shyly. 

Hans Halm stood at the door of his chalet-looking hostlery, 
in a thin white coat and a broad straw hat, with a complacent, 
benevolent smile on his stout visage and shrewd blue eyes. 
Sometimes he looked up and down the road, wondering what 
had become of Crete, who, Frau Halm being dead, had taken 
her mother’s place in the management of the inn. Perhaps 
Hans suspected where his tender-hearted, black-eyed daughter 
had gone ; at least, he was in no wise surprised to see her 
coming back with Hermann, Rudolph joyously barking by 
their side. The two men shook hands heartily, and kissed 
each other: for had they not, some years before, pledged 
themselves solemnly to call each other “ du,” and sworn eter- 
nal friendship, and drunk a prodigious quantity of Affenthaler 
over that ceremony ? 

“ Cretchen, get you in-doors ; the house is quite full, and 
you can’t expect your grandmother to do everything.” 

Hermann looked into the passage. On the pegs along the 
wall were hung a number of guns — nearly all of them double- 
barrelled breach-loaders, with white barrels, and broad green 
straps for the slinging of them over the shoulder. 

“ My men are within, nicht wahr ? ” he said. 

“ Listen, and you will hear,” said Hans Halm. 

From the door by which Crete had disappeared there issued 
a faint murmur of voices and a strong odor of tobacco-smoke. 
Hermann went forward and opened this door, meeting there 
a picture with which he was quite familiar, but which it is 
wholly impossible to describe. The chief room of the inn, 
monopolizing all the ground-floor, and lighted by ten or twelve 
small windows, was almost filled with a cloud of pale-blue 
smoke, in which picturesque groups of men were seen seated 
round the long narrow tables. Brown-faced, bearded men, 
they wore the foresters’ dress of green and gray, with a tall 
beaver hat in which were stuck some capercailzie feathers, 
with a large cartridge-pouch of roe-skin slung over their 
shoulder by a green strap, with a horn slung round their neck 
by means of a twisted green cord with tattered tassels, and 
with a long killing-knife lying on the table before them, with 
which they from time to time cut a lump off the brown loaf. 
All round the low-roofed room, forming a sort of cornice, ran 
a row of deers’ horns tastefully mounted, each marked Avith 
the date on which the animal had been shot. These were. 


SCHONSTEIN. 


115 

for the most part, the product of Hans Halm’s personal skill, 
though the finest pair had been presented to him by Hermann. 
Besides the under-keepers, there were one or two villagers, 
and in a corner sat young Gersbach, his spectacles firmly fixed 
on the book before him, except when Margarethe Halm hap- 
pened to pass before him, as she brought in fresh chopins of 
white-wine to the swarthy, sinewy, picturesque foresters. 

Of course Hermann’s entrance was the signal for a general 
uproar, all the keepers starting from the benches and 
crowding round him to bid him welcome. At last he man- 
aged to get clear of them, and then he sat dowm on one of 
the benches. 

“ Listen, friends ! ” he said, in a loud voice, bringing down 
his hand with a bang on the table. 

There was inslant silence. 

“ The Herr Graf and his friend go shooting to-morrow 
morning. Every man will be here by four o’clock — four 
o’clock, do you understand ? In placing the guns, you will 
take care that the Herr Graf, and the other Englander, have 
the Hauptplatz^ alternately. Four o’clock, every one of you, 
remember. And now, in God’s name, Hans Halm, let us 
have some of your white-wine, that I haven’t tasted for many 
a day.” 

There was a new life in the big forester, now that he had 
sniffed the resinous odor of his native woods, and was once 
more among his own people. He languished in the dull soli- 
tude of Kent : here he knew his business, he was respected 
of men, and he speedily showed that there was none of the 
old swing and vigor gone out of him. 

He had scarcely spoken of the wine, when Grete came up 
with it in a tall white measure, a modest and pleased smile on 
her face. 

“ She does not smile like that to the young Mr. School-mas- 
ter,” whispered one keeper to another. “Our Gretchen has 
her favorites.”* 

“ God give her courage if she marries Hermann ! ” said the 
other. “ He will drive her as we drive the roe.” 

“ Nonsense ! Hermann Lowe is an infant with women. 
You should see how his sister-in-law in Donaiieschingen man- 
ages him.” 

* The Hauptplatz is the point at which the deer are most likely to break 
cover, and therefore the best position for the sportsman. There are gen- 
erally one or two of these good places, which are invariably given, as a 
compliment, to strangers, 


ti6 


IN SILK A TTIRS. 


At this moment the school-master, whom nobody had no- 
ticed, came forward and said to his rival, 

“ How do you find yourself, Hermann Lowe ? ” 

“Ah, right well, Herr Schulmeister,” replied the other 
giving him a hearty grasp of the hand, “And I’ll tell you what 
I’ve got for you in my box. I looked for all the beetles, and 
creeping things, and butterflies I could in England, and all 
the strange ones I have brought for you, with a fine big pin 
run through their body.” 

“ You are very kind, Hermann Lowe.” 

“ No, I’m not. You did a good turn to my sister-in-law’s 
child, when he was nearly dead with eating those berries — 
that’s all. And do you still read as much, and gather beetles 
yourself? Now, look here — I must have all the lads in the 
neighborhood to drive for me in the morning, and they’ll have 
to work hard, for the Herr Graf is not a patient man, and he 
gets angry if there are not plenty of bucks ; and so, if the boys 
are too tired to go to the evening-school — you understand ? ” 

Gersbach nodded. 

“ And the Herr Graf will be pleased if you come with us 
yourself, Gersbach,” added Hermann. 

Later in the evening the count’s party came round to visit 
the inn. By this time Hermann had gone ; but there still re- 
mained a few of the keepers, who, on seeing the count, 
politely rose from their seats. 

“Nein,”said- the count, in a lordly way, “eh — ah— sitzen 
sie, gute Freundin — eh, Freunde — und wie sind Sie, Herr 
Halm und sein Tochter ? ” 

Halm, with admirable gravity, replied to the count as if his 
highness’s manner and grammar had quite impressed the poor 
innkeeper. 

“ Very well indeed, Herr Graf ; and Grete, she will be here 
this moment. I understand you are going to shoot to 
morrow morning, Herr Graf ; I hope you will have much 
sport.” 

“ He says the deer are very plentiful,” observed the count, 
oracularly, to Annie Brunei. “ So you really must come with 
us to-morrow and see our luck.” 

“ Are these roe-deers’ horns ? ” the young lady asked. 
“ Pray ask him how he came to have so many. Did he shoot 
them all himself ? ” 

The count turned, with rather an uncomfortable expres- 
sion, towards the innkeeper, and said (in German), 

** The lady loves to know if — you have — everything shot.” 

Halm looked aghast. Was the count going to impeach 


THE COUNT DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF. 117 

him with having thinned the neighboring woods during the 
owner’s absence ? He immediately broke into a long expla- 
nation and description of all the drives they had had that season, 
and told how the deer were so plentiful that the people were 
complaining bitterly of having their fields and gardens eaten 
up, and so forth, and so forth. But the embarrassment of the 
count’s face only deepened, and still further deepened, until, 
ill a querulous tone, he cried out, 

“ I say, Anerley, I think you’d better come and listen to 
what he says about the sport you’re likely to get to-morrow, 
rather than waste time in showing Mrs. Christmas things she 
doesn’t care about ! ” (This with a hot face and excited 
air.) 

“ If you listen, isn’t that enough ? ” said Anerley. 

“ But, damme, I can’t understand a word he says ; he talks 
like an engine, and all in that horrid patois. Herr Halm, I 
comprehend ; but do you know, the lady loves to drink your 
white-wine.” (This in German.) 

“ Some white-wine, Herr Graf } ” 

Yes. Not many. We wish to drink all — ^four glasses, 
you understand.” 

“ It is so difficult,” continued the count, addressing Miss 
Brunei, “ to get these people to understand German, if you 
don’t speak their barbarous form of it. However, I have 
told him we all wished to taste the white-wine they drink 
here — not a bad wine, and remarkably cheap.” 

“Let me introduce you, Miss Brunei,” said Will, “to Miss 
Grete Halm, who says she speaks French, and will be delighted 
to escort you to-morrow at any time you may wish to join us. 
Grete says she once shot a deer herself ; but I suspect some- 
body else pulled the trigger while she held the gun.” 

Gretchen came forward, with a warm blush on her brown 
cheek ; and then it was arranged (she speaking French flu- 
ently enough, but with a Schwarzwald accent) that she and 
Annie Brunei would seek out the shooting party towards the 
forenoon of the following day. 


CHAPTER XVIL 

THE COUNT DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF. 

In the dusk of the early morning the keepers, drivers, and 
dogs had assembled in the large room of Hans Halm’s inn. 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


1 18 

Hermann was there too, with the great-jawed Rudolph ; and 
Margarethe, with a shadowy reminiscence of recent dreams 
in her soft black eyes, stood quietly on one side, or brought 
some beer to this or that gruff forester, who had perhaps 
walked a dozen miles that morning to the place of rendezvous. 
The dogs lay under the chairs, the guns and deer-skin pouches 
of the men were on the table before them, by the side of their 
tall feathered beavers ; and if the whole scene did not look as 
if it had been cut out of an Opera, it was because the pictur- 
esque trappings of the keepers had been sobered in color by 
the rain and sun of many years, and because there dwelt over 
the party an austere silence. The excitement of the day had 
not commenced. 

When the count and Will arrived at the place of meeting, a 
faint flush of rose-color was beginning to steal along the dark 
violet of the dawn ; and as the whole party set out, in strag- 
gling twos and threes, along the gray road, daylight began to 
show itself over the fields and the mist-covered woods. 

Hermann, who led the way, was accompanied by a little old 
man with a prodigious black mustache, twinkling eyes, and 
comical gravity of face, who was captain over the drivers, 
and named Spiegelmann. The venerable Spiegelmann, with 
his tall hat and slung horn, was a man of importance ; and he 
had already, with much seriousness, pronounced his opinion 
on the direction of the wind, and on the necessity for begin- 
ning the driving some considerable distance farther on. 

Then came Will Anerley, who had made friends with the 
young school-master, Gersbach, and was very anxious to know 
how life was to be made tolerable if one lived at Schonstein 
all the year round. Indeed, Anerley’s having travelled so 
much, and among so many different people, combined with a 
certain natural breadth of s}TOpathy, gave him a peculiar 
interest in trying to imagine himself in the position of almost 
every man whom he met. How did those men regard the 
rest of the world ? What had they to look forward to ? What 
was their immediate aim, their immediate pleasure ? Anerley 
would take as much interest in the affairs of an apple-woman, 
and talk as gravely and freely to her about them, as he would 
in the more ambitious projects of an artist or a man of letters. 
The gratifying of this merely intellectual curiosity was a con- 
stant habit and source of satisfaction to him ; and while it 
offended some people by the frankness of speech, and 
charmed others by the immediate generosity and self-denial 
which were its natural results, it promised to leave him, 
sooner or later, in the attitude of negative criticism and social 


THE COUNT DISTINGUJS/IES HIMSELF. 119 

isolation which his father exhibited. Fortunately, he had in- 
herited from his mother a certain warmth of heart and im- 
pulse, which corrected his transmitted tendency to theorize : 
it was this side of his temperament which had brought upon 
him his present misfortune, while he had been engaged, out 
of pure curiosity, in studying Annie Brunei’s character, and 
endeavoring to enter into her views of the people and things 
around her. In fact, the pursuit of which I speak, though 
extremely enticing and pleasant, should never be attempted 
by an unmarried man who has not passed his fortieth year. 

In the present case, the young Herr Schulmeister took an 
instant liking for the grave, cheerful, plain-spoken man beside 
him, who seemed to concern himself about other people, and 
was so ready with excuses for them. 

I should not take you to be an Englishman,” said Gers- 
bach. 

“Why?” 

“ You have none of the English character. Count Schbn- 
stein is an Englishman — a typical Englishman — conceited, 
bigoted in his own opinions, generous when it is permitted to 
him to be ostentatious, dull and stupid, and jealous of people 
who are not so — ” 

“ My friend,” said Will, “why didn’t you leave your dolls 
behind you in the nursery ? Or is this typical Englishman 
one of your university puppets ? You know there is no such 
thing as a typical Englishman, or typical Frenchman, or typ- 
ical German ; and I have almost come to believe that there is 
no such thing as national character. The most reckless 
prodigals I have met have been Scotchmen ; the keenest 
business-men I have met have been Irishmen ; the dullest 
and most melancholy, Frenchmen — ” 

“ And the Germans ? ” asked Gersbach, with a laugh. 

“ The Germans are like anybody else, so far as disposition 
goes, although they happen to be educationally and intellect- 
ually a little ahead of other nations. And as for the poor 
Graf, I don’t think you, for example, would make half as 
good a man as he is if you were in his position.” 

“ Perhaps not ; but why ? ” 

“ I can’t exactly explain it to you in German ; but doctri- 
nairism is not the first requisite in a landlord ; and if you 
were the Graf, you would be for coercing the people under 
you and about you into being logical, and you would with- 
draw yourself from people who opposed you, and you would 
gradually weaken your influence and destroy your chances of 
doing good. Why are our Tory country gentlemen always 


120 


m SrLK ATTIKE. 


better liked by the people than the Radical proprietors ? 
Why are Tories, as a rule, pleasanter companions than Radi- 
cals ? I am a Radical, but I always prefer dining with a 
Tory ? ” 

“ Is the count a Tory ? asked the Schulmeister. 

“ Yes. Men who have been in business and earned, or 
gained, a lot of money, almost invariably become fierce Tories. 
It is their first passport to respectability ; and there is no step 
one can take so cheaply as that of changing one’s political 
theories.” 

“ What a singular social life you have in England ! ” cried 
Gersbach, blinking with a curious sort of humor behind his 
big spectacles. “There is the demi-monde, for example. 
Why, you talk of that, and your writers speak of it, as if there 
was an acknowledged rivalry openly carried on between the 
members of it and your married women.” 

“ But our married women,” said Will, “ are going to form 
a trades-union among themselves in order to crush that insti- 
tution.” 

At which Franz Gersbach looked puzzled : these English 
were capable of trying any mad expedient ; and somehow their 
devices always worked well, except in such matters as popu- 
lar education, military efficiency, music, scholarship, and so 
forth. As for a trades-union of any kind, it was sure to 
flourish in England. 

They had now reached the edge of the forest, and here 
Hermann called the party around him, and gave his orders 
in a loud peremptory tone, which had the effect of consider- 
ably frightening his master ; the count hoped that he would 
do nothing inaccurate. 

“ You, Herr Schulmeister, will accompany the drivers, and 
Spiegelmann will give you one of the return-posts. Falz, you 
will go down to the new-cut road — Greef on your right, Beigel 
farther along. Spiegelmann will sound his horn when you 
are all posted, and the second horn when the drive com- 
mences. Forward, then, in God’s name, all of us ! ” 

And away trooped the lads under the surveillance of the 
venerable Spiegelmann, who had a couple of brace of leashed 
beagles pulling and straining and whining to get free into 
the brushwood. Hermann, Will, and the count at once dived 
into the twilight of the tall pines, that almost shut out the 
red flames of the morning over their peaks. The soft, suc- 
culent yellow moss was heavy with dew, and so were the 
ferns and the stoneberry bushes. A dense carpet of this low 
brushwood deadened the sound of their progress ; and they 


THE COUNT DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF. 


121 


advanced, silent as phantoms, into the dim recesses of the 
wood. Here and there occurred an opening or clearance, with 
a tew felled trees lying about ; then they struggled through 
a wilderness of younger fir and oak, and finally, came into a 
tract of the forest where nothing was to be seen, as far as the 
eye could reach, but innumerable tall trunks, coated with the 
yellow and gray lichens of many years, branchless almost to 
their summit, and rising from a level plain of damp green 
moss. There was not even the sound of a bird, or of a fal- 
ling leaf, to break the intense silence of the place ; nor was 
there the shadow of any living thing to be seen down those 
long narrow avenues between the closely growing stems of 
the trees. 

“ Count Schonstein,” said Will, in a whisper, as they drew 
near the Hauptplatz, “what gun is that you have with you ? ” 

“ My ordinary breech-loader.” 

“ Carries far ? ” 

“ I should think so. Shoots hard and close as a rifle.” 

“Will it kill at fifty yards?” 

“ It might.” 

“ Hermann,” said Will, turning to the head-keeper, “ I 
insist on being posted eighty yards distant from the count.” 

“ You think that is a joke,” said the count, peevishly. 

“ I don’t think it a joke at all,” said Will. “ Breech-loaders 
have a wonderful faculty of going off when nobody expects 
them ; and though you may explain the thing satisfactorily 
afterward, that won’t remove a few buck-shot out of your 
leg.” 

“ I am not in the habit of letting my gun go off accident- 
ally,” said the count, grandly. “ Indeed, I flatter myself 
that few men better understand the use of — ” 

“The Hauptplatz, He^r,” said Hermann, unceremoniously 
breaking in upon his master. “ The Herr Graf will be sta- 
tioned farther down this path ; you must not shoot in that 
direction. You may shoot in front as the deer come to you, 
or after them when they have passed ; not along this line, 
only.” 

- “ Danke schon, Hermann, and tell the same thing to the 
count.” 

He now found himself opposite a tall tree, which had a 
cross in red paint traced upon the trunk. The count and 
Hermann passed on, and when the three were posted, each 
held out his arm, and signalled that he understood his im- 
mediate neighbor’s position, and would remember it. 

Scarcely had they done so when a long and loud tantara 


132 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


from Spiegelmann’s horn told them that the drivers were ready 
A faint echo now came from the other side of the strip of 
forest, showing that there the keepers were posted ; and 
finally a return blast from Hermann’s horn proclaimed that 
all were waiting. 

Once more a brilliant trill from Spiegelmann — this time 
an audacious and elaborate effort, full of noisy anticipation 
— came through the wood ; and then were heard the faint 
and far-off sounds of yelping dogs, and shouting men, and 
sticks being beaten against the stumps of the trees. The 
drive had commenced. Count Schonstein began to tremble ; 
his heart went faster and faster, as his excited brain peopled 
all the dim vistas of the trees with living forms. He could 
scarcely breathe with absolute fear. Again and again he 
looked at his triggers, and the hammers, and the little spikes 
of brass which he hoped would strike death into the ribs of 
some splendid buck. He began to assure himself that he 
could not tell a buck from a doe if the animal ran quickly ; 
that he must shoot at once, and trust to Providence keeping 
the tender feminine members of the herd out of the way. 
Indeed, he had already framed an excuse for having shot a 
doe, and he was busily picturing his assumed regret, and his 
inner delight at being able to shoot anything, when — 

By this time a dead silence had intervened. The first 
joyous yelping of the dogs had quite died down ; and now 
the broad-footed, stump-legged, big-headed little animals 
were wiring themselves through the brushwood, and jumping 
over the soft moss, with an occasional toss of their long ears 
or a slight whine. The only sound to be heard was the 
occasional rattling of sticks by the beaters, accompanied by 
their peculiar guttural cry. 

Suddenly — and the whole empty -space of the wood seemed 
to quiver for a moment with this instantaneous throb of life 
— Will caught a glimpse of a light shimmer of brown away 
at the end of one of the long avenues. For a moment the 
apparition was lost ; when it reappeared, it was evident that 
the deer was bearing down upon Count Schonstein’s posi- 
tion. The next second, a fine, lithe, thin-limbed, supple, and 
handsome buck came along in a light, easy canter into the 
gray light of the opener space. He had no thought of dan- 
ger before him ; he only thought of that behind ; and for a 
brief space he stood right in front of the count, apparent- 
ly listening intently for the strange sounds from which he 
fled. 

In despair, and rage, an^l amazement. Will saw him pause 


THE CO UNT DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF: i 3 

there, out of the range of shot, and yet without an effort 
being made to secure the fine pair of horns which graced 
the animaFs head. Will now saw that the count’s gun was 
levelled, and that he was apparently pulling the trigger, but 
no puff of smoke came out of the barrel. Almost at the 
same moment the deer must have seen the count; for all at 
once he shrunk back on his limbs, as if he had been struck, 
shivered lightly through his entire frame, and then, with a 
sudden leap, he was off and away out of sight, in the direc- 
tion of Hermann. 

In that brief moment of time the count had taken down 
his gun, looked at the hammers, found they were on half- 
cock, cocked them, and put up his gun again ; and then, as the 
deer was just vanishing, bang ! bang ! went both the barrels. 
Of course the buck was quite untouched ; but the next 
moment Will heard the sharp crack of a gun in the neighbor- 
hood of Hermann’s post, and he knew what that meant. 

Even at that distance he could hear the count breathing 
out incomprehensible curses at his own stupidity, as he put 
another couple of cartridges into the barrels. Doubtless, in 
his excitement, he had been trying so often whether the 
hammers were on full-cock — pulling at them, letting them 
down, and so forth — that accidentally they remained at half- 
cock, and so spoiled for him the easiest shot he was likely 
to get that day. 

The silence which had been broken by the report of the 
guns now fell again over the forest. The sun came out, too ; 
and soon there were straggling lanes of gold running down 
into the blue twilight of the distance, while the heat seemed 
to have suddenly awakened a drowsy humming of insect life. 
Now and then a brightly plum aged jay would flash through 
the trees, screaming hoarsely ; and then again the same dead, 
hot stillness prevailed. It was in this perfect silence that a 
living thing stole out of some short bushes, and softly made 
its way over the golden and green moss until it caught sight 
of Will. Then it cocked up its head, and calmly regarded 
him with a cold, glassy, curious stare. The moment it lifted 
its head he saw that it was a fox, not reddish-brown, but 
blackish-gray, with extraordinarily bright eyes ; and as they 
had been speciallydnvited to shoot foxes—which are of no 
use for hunting purposes, and do much damage, in the Black 
Forest — he instinctively put up his gun. As instinctively, he 
put it down again. 

“ My old prejudices are too strong,” he said ; wherewith 
he contented himself with lifting: a lump of dried wood an J 


124 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


hurling it at the small animal, which now slunk away in 
another direction. 

Then burst out the joyous howl of the beagles, here and 
there, as if every one of them had started his own particular 
game ; the yelping bark rising at times sharp and clear as if 
in the immediate neighborhood, at other times fading away 
into the distance. The fun had commenced. First there 
came trotting along a long-necked, thin-legged doe, with a 
little fawn by her side ; and these, catching sight of Will, 
made a sharp turn to the right and bore down upon the 
count. The latter, either too frightened or too savage to care 
for distinctions of sex or age, again blazed both barrels into 
the air, with what effect Will was too much occupied to see. 

For at the same moment there came down the line, trans- 
versely, crossing in front of the count, a fine buck which 
Hermann had taken a long shot at and missed. The deer 
was going at full speed, careless of anything in front, his 
whole energy bent on speeding from the danger behind, and 
every thew and muscle of his body straining its utmost. As 
he passed. Will fired his right barrel into the flashing streak 
of brown — not a hair was touched ! The next moment the 
buck, seeing that no further enemy stood in front, wheeled 
round and made off to cross the path on which Will stood, 
at some distance farther down. Just as the shoulder of the 
animal appeared before the lane of trees, the other barrel 
was sent after him ; there was a shrill scream, the buck 
leaped a dozen feet into the air and fell, without a parting 
groan in him, head foremost on the soft moss. 

“ There is one pair of horns, at least, for Miss Brunei,” 
thought Will, hastily pushing in two more cartridges. 

The count had certainly plenty of good fortune, so far as 
the deer were concerned. One particularly handsome buck 
which had been running straight at him, without seeing him, 
he received with a hurriedly aimed shot which did no dam- 
age. The animal, however, got such a fright that it turned 
and galloped right back and through the ring of the beaters, 
escaping a parting shot which old Spiegejmann aimed at 
him. Here and there a shot had been heard round the sides 
of the drive ; but as yet no one knew what the other had 
done. In a few minutes, however, the dogs and then the boys 
began to show themselves, approaching through the trees. 
That particular drive was over. 

Will hastened up to the count, 

“What have you shot ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 


THE COUNT OrSTlNGUISHRS H/MSELR 


125 


The count looked very much vexed ; and Will attributed 
it, of course, to his having missed so many shots. 

“ Why didn’t you shoot sooner at the deer that came up 
and looked at you ? ” 

“ Why ? ” re-echoed the count, with a savage laugh 

“ Why ? Because these barrels were both on half-cock 

and I pulled like to break my fingers over the things 

What did you shoot ? ” 

I believe I’ve left a buck lying down there.” 

“ Why don’t you go and look after him, and get somebody 
to carry him home, instead of waiting here ? ” 

The count was evidently very uncomfortable. He bit his 
lip, he worked with the trigger of his gun ; and finally he 
walked abruptly away from Will, and addressed, in a whisper, 
the first of the boys who came up 

“ Kommen Sie hier.” 7 v .1 ' - 

The boy stared in amazement at being called “ Sie.” Of 
course he dared not think that the count was joking. 

“ Ich habe geschossen — wissen Sie — } ” 

“ Ja, Herr,” said the boy, vaguely, though he did not under- 
stand what the count meant. 

“ Ein kleines — gar kleines — D — n it, look here ! ” 

He caught the boy by the shoulder, as if he meant to kick 
him, and dragged him a few yards farther on and pointed to 
the ground. The boy opened his eyes : if he had seen the 
corpse of his first cousin lying there, he could not have been 
more astonished. 

“ Sie sehen es,” remarked the count, hurriedly, with a fine 
red flush burning in his stout face. 

‘‘Ja, Herr.” 

There lay there a tiny, soft, pretty little animal, scarcely 
bigger than a King Charles spaniel, with a glossy light-brown 
coat, and large meek eyes, now glazed and dull. Blood was 
trickling from the little thing’s mouth, and also fronrits shoul- 
ders : the fact being that the count, on seeing the doe and her 
fawn coming up, had fired both his barrels at them on chance, 
and had managed to destroy the helpless youngling. 

If you had told the count then that before evening every 
man, woman, and child in Schonstein would have heard of 
what he had done, that the keepers would be sneering at him 
and the neighbors laughing at him, he would probably have 
put in another cartridge into his gun and shot himself (if he 
were able) on the spot. His present anxiety was to get this^ 
little lad to take away the fawn under his blouse and bury it 


126 


IN SILK A TTJRE. 


somewhere ; but all he could do failed to impress the incor- 
rigible young Schwarzwalder with his meaning. 

“ Verstehen Sie mir nicht ? ” 

“ Ja, Herr.” 

It was always “ Ja, Herr ; ” and here w'ere the people coming 
up. Fortunately, Hermann, having sent a long blast of his 
horn to recall any straggling beater or keeper, had walked 
down to the place where Wilks slain buck was lying, accompa- 
nied by the rest of the keepers, who, as they came up, grave- 
ly shook hands with Will, according to custom, and wished him 
many more such shots. Then Spiegelmann, selecting a pecu- 
liarly shaped branch of young fir, stuck it into Will’s hat, by 
which all and sundry — particularly they of the village — as the 
shooting-party returned at night, might know that he had 
brought down a buck. 

At this moment two of the lads dragged up the deer which 
Hermann had shot ; and one of the keepers, with his long kill- 
ing knife in hand, proceeded to diserpbowel the animals, previ- 
ous to their being carried home. The rest of the party seated 
themselves on the driest spot they could find and somebody 
produced a couple of chopins of white-wine, which were forth- 
with handed round. 

But what of the count ? They had all been so eager to 
compliment Will on his good fortune, that no one had noticed 
the Graf’s uneasy loitering about the fatal spot where his mur- 
dered victim lay. 

Presently up came the boy. 

“ Hermann Lowe, the Herr Graf wants to see you. He 
has shot a little fawn, but won’t let me bring it.” 

Hermann rose up, with a flush of vexation over his face. 
He did not look at his companions, but he knew that they 
were smiling. 

“ Young idiot !” he said when they were out of ear-shot, 
“ why didst thou come and say so before all the people ? ” 

“ The Herr Graf — ” 

“ Der Teufel ! Hast thou no head on thy shoulders ? ” 

The count was mortally frightened to meet Hermann. He 
did not know in what manner to conduct himself : whether he 
should carelessly joke away the matter, or overawe his for- 
ester by the grandeur of his demeanor. 

“ I see,” said Hermann when he came up ; “ the Herr Graf 
will not believe me that there is alwa3's time to look; 
that when there is no time to look, one need not waste pow- 
der.” 

“ Bah ! stuff ! nonsense I I tell you, when they are running 


THE COUNT DISTINGUISHED HIMSELE. Ji 

like infernal hares, how am I to look at their size to a 
nicety ? 

“ The fawns don’t run so quickly,” said Hermann, respect- 
fully, but firmly. 

“ Hermann Lowe,” said the count, hotly, “ I suppose you’re 
my servant ? ” 

“ I have that honor, Herr Graf.” 

“ Then you’ll please to shut up, that’s all, and get that 
wretched little animal out of the road. Not rqn quickly! 
D — n his impudence I I’ll have to teach these German 
thieves some better manners.” 

With which, and many more muttered grumblings,the count 
walked off, leaving Hermann to cover up the dead body of 
the fawn, and mark the place, so that it could be afterward 
taken away and securely buried. 

When the count came up to the rest of the party, he was 
smiling urbanely. 

“ Stolen a march upon me, eh ? ” he said to Will. “ On 
my own ground, too. ’Gad, I’ll show you something before 
we’ve done. I hadn’t the ghost of a chance either time I 
shot ; and it was lucky I missed the second time, because I 
saw immediately afterward that it was a doe.” 

“ She had a fawn with her, hadn’t she } ” said Will. 

“ Yes,” replied the count, with a sharp glance all round the 
circle of faces. 

Hermann now came up, and chose two of the strongest 
lads to carry home the two deer. Each lad had one of the 
animals slung round his shoulders, while he grasped two of 
its thin legs in either hand, and allowed the neck, and horns 
of the buck to hang down in a picturesque fashion behind 
him. Will went privately up to one of the boys : 

“ You know Grete Halm ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ When you go down to the village, tell Grete to ask the 
English lady to come back with you ; because, if she remains 
till mid-day, we may be gone too far from Schonstein. You 
understand ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ And you may 'go up to the Herr Graf’s house, and tell 
any one you may .see to send up luncheon an hour earlier than 
was arranged. Y,ou understand ? ” 

“ Ja, Herr.” ' 

And so the two 1^ went on their way ; and Hermann 
began to sketch out^to his keepers the plan of the next 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


J2S 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE. 

It was, however, mid-day before Crete Halm and Annie Bru- 
nei arrived ; and as they entered the forest at the point where 
the shooting-party was now stationed, they found that the 
drive had already commenced. Will happening to be at the 
corner post,"it devolved upon him to enjoin strict silence up- 
on the new-comers — a command which Miss Brunei obeyed 
by sitting down on the trunk of a felled tree, and beginning 
to ask Will a series of questions about his morning’s advent- 
ures. 

They were now in a clearance in the forest some forty yards 
broad, and on the other side of this strip of open ground ran 
a long dense mass of brushwood, lying still and silent in the 
luminous, quivering heat. Will, Crete, and Annie Brunei 
were in the shadow of a patch of young firs, and between 
them and the dense brushwood extended the forty yards of 
clearance, with the strong sunlight beating down on the crim- 
son and golden moss, and on the yellow stumps of the felled 
trees. The air was hot and moist, filled with the pungent res- 
inous odor of the pine — a languid, delicious scented atmos- 
phere, which made one prone to day-dreaming or sleep. 

Suddenly, without the rustle of a leaf, and long before any 
of the dogs had given tongue, there leaped out from the close 
brushwood into the open sunlight a fine young buck, with his 
head and horns high in air. The warm light fell on his ruddy 
light-brown coat, and showed his shapely throat, his sinewy 
form, and tall thin legs, as he stood, irresolute and afraid, 
sniffing the air with his black nostrils, and watching with his 
full, large eyes. He saw nothing, however, of the people be- 
fore him in the shadow of the firs ; and for several seconds 
he remained motionless, apparently the only living thing in 
the dead silence of the place. Then the bark of a dog was 
heard behind him : he cantered a few steps farther on, caught 
sight of the little party as he passed, and then, doubly nerved, 
was off like a bolt into the heart of the forest. 

“ But, really — ” said Will. 

“ Now, don’t make me angry with you,” said Annie, releas- 
ing his right arm, which she had tightly held for three minutes. 
“ I should never have forgiven you if you had shot that poor 
creature, who looked so timid and handsome — ” 

“ I should have given him the chance of running.” 


ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE. 


129 


“ But you would have killed him. Didn’t I see the two you 
sent home, and their pitiful glazed eyes ? ” 

“ Then you have come out to stop our shooting altogether, 
I suppose ? ” said Will, with a laugh, though he was much 
more vexed than he chose to show. 

But he had his revenge. He had scarcely spoken when a 
buck, followed by two does, came out of the brushwood some 
distance farther down, the buck springing lightly and buoy- 
antly over the soft moss, the does running more warily in his 
wake. Before Annie Brunei could do anything beyond utter 
a short cry, the contents of Will’s right barrel had caught 
the buck on his shoulder. He rolled over, struggled to his 
feet again, and then, with a last effort, made a few stumbling 
steps, and sank unseen among the ferns. Will turned, with 
a smile, to Miss Brunei. She had covered her face with her 
hands. Crete, on the other hand, was in a wonderful state 
of delight. 

“ You killed him, Herr, I know you did. I saw him fall ; 
and how handsome he was ! and his horns, too, they are large ; 
how pleased you will be to have them ! My father will get 
them mounted for yOu, if you like ; and if you would have the 
deer’s feet for pegs, that can be done. Oh, I wish the drive 
was over, that I might go to see him ! ” 

The drive was very nearly over, for the dogs were heard in 
the immediate neighborhood — particularly the low sonorous 
baying of Rudolph, who had escaped from the leash, and was 
tearing backward and forward through the wood, with foam- 
flakes lying along his glistening brown coat. But all at once 
the baying of Rudolph was turned into a terrific yell, subsiding 
into a howl ; and at the same moment the report of a gun was 
heard at some distance farther along. Immediately after- 
ward Will caught sight of a doe disappearing through the 
trees behind him, and from the way it ran he judged that it 
had a broken leg ; while down in front of them came Rudolph, 
going at full speed, with his tail between his legs, and the 
front of his mouth covered with blood. The next thing seen 
was Count Schonstein, who came running to Will in a wonder- 
ful state of excitement. 

“ I’ve shot him ! — I’ve shot him ! ” he cried, ‘‘ but we must 
go after him.” 

“ Is it Rudolph you mean ? ” said Will. 

“ A buck — a splendid buck--” 

“ Well, don’t point your gun in my face.” 

“ It’s on half-cock.” 

9 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


no 

It isn’t ; and I don’t like the muzzle of a gun staring at 
me.” 

“ Will that do ? ” cried the count, in vexation, dropping the 
gun on the ferns. Do come and help me to catch him — ” 

“ Catch a deer ! Listen, Miss Brunei.” 

But the count was off in the direction the wounded doe had 
taken. 

The beaters now made their appearance through the brush- 
wood, and Hermann’s horn soon brought the keepers to the 
rendezvous. Will explained to Hermann that the Graf had 
gone in pursuit of a doe with a broken leg. 

“ Has he Rudolph with him ? ” 

No ; I believe he shot Rudolph at the same time that he 
broke the hind-leg of the doe.” 

“ Shot Rudolph ! ” said Hermann ; and then he turned to 
the keepers : “ Where is Rudolph ? Who has seen Rudolph ? 
Who allowed Rudolph to escape 1 ” 

The only answer he could get was from a messenger, who 
came up to say that luncheon had arrived, and wished to know 
where the Herr Graf wanted it placed. This messenger gave 
Hermann a graphic description of his having seen Rudolph 
flying in the direction of Schonstein in a state of utter demor- 
alization. Wherewith Hermann sat himself down on the 
stump of a tree, and said, resignedly, 

“ Spiegelmann, take one of the dogs after the wounded doe, 
and send back the Herr Graf. As for you, Fritz, ask the lady 
where luncheon is to be placed.” 

By the time Count Schonstein and Spiegelmann returned, 
the latter carrying on his shoulder the doe that the count had 
shot, luncheon had been laid out by the servants ; and round 
the large white cloth were placed a series of travelling-rugs 
and other appliances for smoothing down the roughnesses of 
fern, and stone-berry, and moss. The keepers, Hermann, and 
the young school-master were seated some little distance off, 
in picturesque groups, surrounding the dead game, which 
consisted of two bucks, the count’s doe, a fox shot by Gersbach 
and a hare shot by some one else. The men had also their 
luncheon with them — apples, brown bread, a piece of smoked 
ham, and a bottle or two of white-wine. All the incidents of 
the drive had now to be recapitulated; and there ensued a 
perfect Babel of guttural Schwarzwald German. 

The count had ordered out a very nice luncheon indeed ; 
and so pleased was he with his success in having shot some- 
thing, that he called one of the boys and gave him two 
bottles of Champagne, a drinking-cup, and a lump of ice to 


ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE. 


take over te the keepers. Indeed, he would have given 
Hermann and the school-master an invitation to sit down at 
the white cloth, only he wished to postpone that explanation 
about Rudolph until Annie Brunei and Will were out of the way. 
As for Crete Halm, she equally dreaded the thouglit of 
sitting with the count’s party, and of having to go alone 
among the men and boys opposite ; and it was only by much 
coaxing and ordering that she was made to sit down by Miss 
Brunei, and submit to have the count himself carve for her, 
and offer her wine in a beautiful little silver cup. 

Siisse an die Siissen,” said he, gallantly, as he poured 
out the Champagne ; and Crete’s soft black eyes looked 
puzzled. 

“ Look at the boy in the red blouse,” said Annie Brunei, 
“ lying beside the two deer. I believe the count has got the 
whole scene made up in imitation of a hunting-picture, and 
that the boy knows well enough how fine his brown face and 
red smock-frock are in the sunlight. Then see how that 
deer’s head lies back, precisely as if it were in a lithograph ; 
and the streaks of sunlight falling across the green dress of 
the keepers and the stretched-out dogs — and Hermann, there, 
cutting an apple with a dagger, his hair all matted with 
perspiration — the school-master sitting on the trunk of the 
tree, looking vaguely at the fox before him — ” 

“ Wondering,” observed Will, “ what sort of chemical 
change has occurred within the 'last half-hour, or why life 
should go out of an organism when lead goes in.” 

“ That is a Cerman picture, and here are we making a 
French picture ; only that Crete is such a thorough Black- 
Forester, with her bodice, and white sleeves, and head- 
dress.” 

The count was intensely flattered and pleased by her 
admiration of the impromptu pictures. He had been striving 
hard to interest and amuse her — most of all had he tried to 
charm her with the delights which he held at his own com- 
mand ; and here were the very sunlight, and the colors of the 
forest, and the shape of deers’ necks aiding him ! 

“ You don’t see the like of that in England, do you ? ” he 
said, with his mouth full of cold chicken. “ I hope, Miss 
Brunei, 3'ou and Mrs. Christmas will make your stay with us 
as long as ever you can.” 

“ I should be veiy glad,” she said ; “but I must see what 
Lady Jane says in a day or two — whether she finds herself 
getting better. If she should prefer the cooler air of mountain 
scenery, we may go on to Switzerland.” 


IN SILK A I TIRE. 


“ But don’t you dread the idea of travelling alone — looking 
after your own luggage, and what not ? ” asked the count, 
with his mouth, this time, full of some other animal’s tongue. 

“ It was not entirely on a pleasure excursion we came,” 
she said, quietly. 

“ And then,” said Will, “-you can get plenty of cool mount- 
ain air in the Black Forest. You can go and live comfort- 
ably on the top of the Feldberg, about five thousand feet 
high, with a dozen mountains all round you over four 
thousand feet. In the mean time, don’t trouble yourself with 
thoughts of change ; but let me give you some of this jelly. 
You are very fond of sweets, I know.” 

“ I am. You have been watching me.” 

He had been watching her too much, he thought. The 
intense curiosity with which he regarded the singular change 
in the girl’s nature so soon as she left the stage, with the 
study of her pretty, superficial carelessness, her frank, au- 
dacious manner, and her quaint, maternal, matter-of-fact 
attitude towards himself, had wrought its inevitable work ; 
and at the very moment when she was thinking that Mr. 
Anerley took a friendly pleasure in her society, he was long- 
ing to get away from it as from a torture too heavy to be 
borne — longing to get away, and unable to go. He might 
easily have avoided her on this very day, for example, by 
plea&ng business occupations ; instead, he had looked with 
impatience for her arrival all the morning and forenoon. 

And if he had any intellectual pleasure in studying the 
curious shades of the young actress’s character, it was well 
that he improved his time ; for this was the last day on 
which she should ever appear to him that enigmatical com- 
pound of a childlike gayety and mimicry, with a matronly air 
which was quite as amusingly unnatural. From this period 
henceforth, the reader who takes the trouble to follow Annie 
Brunei’s history will find her a changed woman, drawing 
nearer to that beautiful ideal which one who knew her mother 
would have expected to find in Annie Napier’s only child. 

At present she was chiefly concerned with the various 
sweets which Count Schonstein’s cook had sent, and also in 
trying the effect of squeezing the juice of different kinds of 
fruit into the iced Champagne which she sipped from time to 
time. She came to the conclusion that sliced apple added 
to Champagne and iced water greatly improved its flavor ; 
and she appealed to Crete Halm, who had tried all her dif- 
ferent specifics, the two drinking out of the same glass. 
Crete began to fg-ncy that English ladies, though they were 


ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE. 


very beautiful, and had magnificent hair, were little better 
than children, to amuse themselves with such nonsense. 

“ I see that Hermann is getting dreadfully impatient,” said 
Miss Brunei at last ; “ let us go.” 

“ Pardon, mademoiselle,” said Will. “ Let us have an un- 
derstanding first.” 

She laughed a bright and merry laugh that puzzled the 
count extremely. 

“Was gibt’s, Crete ? ” said he. 

Crete began to explain, with a demure smile, how the Fraii- 
lein had held the Herr’s arm when a buck was going past ; 
but the count soon lost the thread of the story, and had to 
beg Will for a translation. 

“ I really can’t bear to see any one else shoot when I am 
looking on,” said Miss Brunei. “ But if I were myself shoot- 
ing, I dare say I shouldn’t care.” 

“ Come, then,” said Will, “will you take my gun during 
the next drive ? I will teach you how to hold it and fire — ” 

“ I know that already,” she said. It was not the first time 
she had fired a gun — on the stage. 

“ And I will fix the gun so that you need have no trouble.” 

“ Agreed,” she said ; while Crete, who was about to re- 
main behind to assist in packing up the luncheon things, as- 
sured her that the holding of the gun was quite easy, and that 
she would be sure to kill a splendid deer. 

They had to walk nearly half a mile before they came to 
the next beat ; and by that time they had arrived at a sort of 
broad ravine, or hollow, the hill leading down to which was 
covered with tall, branchless pines. Down in the valley com- 
menced a tract of young trees and brushwood, which was 
supposed to be full of deer. While the beaters were drawing 
a circle round this tract of brushwood, Hermann posted the 
guns, and courteously gave Will the Hauptplatz, understand- 
ing that the young lady was about to try her luck. At this 
point there was a mass of earth and roots which had been 
torn up by the falling of a pine — a little embankment some 
five feet high, over which one could easily command the 
whole line of brushwood lying in front. This was the spot 
where Will posted Annie Brunei. He placed the barrel of 
the gun on the edge of this natural rampart, and then showed 
her how, whenever she s^aw a deer spring out into the sunlight 
down below in the valley, she was noiselessly to point the 
gun, keep the stock well against her shoulder, and fire. 

“ Only take care,” said he. “ that it isn’t a dog or a boy 
that comes out of the bushes.” 


134 


IN SILK ATTIRE, 


“ What if I shoot you ? ” she said. 

“ You can’t shoot me, any more than you can shoot your- 
self. I shall go up the hill a bit to overlook you ; and if it 
should be a dog, I’ll shout out before you murder him.” 

Here the long, low, steady call of Spiegelmann’s horn was 
heard, with Hermann’s reply. 

“ When the next horn calls, you may begin to look out. 
Hold out your hand.” 

She held out her right hand, wonderingly, and showed him 
the small white fingers. 

It is quite steady ; but your heart beats.” 

“ It generally does,” she said, with a smile. ‘‘ It is a 
weakness, I know, but — ” 

Here the fine anticipatory flourish of the keeper’s bugle 
again came echoing through the trees. Will gave over the 
gun to her, told her to take time and not be afraid, and then 
retired somewhat farther up the hill. He ensconced himself 
behind a tall gray pine, whence, without being seen, he could 
command a view of the entire length of brushwood, and of 
Miss Brunei in her place of concealment. 

“If she only remains cool,” he thought, “ she is certain to 
be successful.” 

Once only she looked round and up the hill towards him, 
and there was a sort of constrained smile about her lips. 

“ I am afraid she is getting frightened,” he thought now. 

The intense sultry silence of the place certainly heightened 
her nervous expectation, for she could distinctly hear her 
heart thumping against her side. Expectancy " became a 
positive pain — an agony that seemed to be choking her ; but 
never for a moment did she think of abandoning her post. 

Meanwhile Will’s experienced eye failed to detect the least 
motion among the bushes, nor could he hear the faintest 
noise from the dogs. Yet Hermann had told him that this 
was one of the best beats in the neighborhood ; and so he 
patiently waited, knowing that it was only a matter of time. 

At length one of the dogs was heard to bellow forth his 
joyous discovery. Will’s breath began to come and go 
more quickly, in his intense anxiety that his pupil should 
distinguish herself at the approaching crisis. Then it seemed 
to him that at some distance off he saw one or two of the 
young firs tremble, when there was not a breath of wind to 
stir them. 

He watched these trees and the bushes adjoining intently, 
but they were again quite motionless; the dog, too, only 
barked at intervals. All at once, however, he saw, coming 


ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE. 


135 


down a lane in the brushwood, two branched yellow tips, 
which paused and remained stationary, with only a single 
bush between them and the open space fronting Miss Brunei. 
They were the horns of a deer which now stood there, uncer- 
tain by w'hich way to fly from the dogs behind him. 

“ If she could only catch sight of these horns,” he said to 
himself, “ and understand to fire through the bush, she would 
kill him to a certainty.” 

Evidently, however, she did not see the horns ; perhaps 
her position prevented her. So, with his own heart beating 
rapidly now, Will waited for the moment when the dogs 
would drive the deer out into the clear sunlight, immediately 
underneath the muzzle of her gun. 

A sharp bark from one of the beagles did it. Will saw the 
light spring of the deer out into the open, and the same 
glance told him that Annie Brunei had shrunk back with 
a light cry, and that the gun, balanced for a moment on 
the edge of the mass of roots, was about to fall on the 
ground. 

At the sarne moment he received an astounding blow on 
the side that nearly knocked him over; and his first instinct 
was that of an Englishman — to utter an oath, clench his fist, 
and turn round to find a face to strike at. But before the 
instinct had shaped itself into either thought or action, the 
sudden spasm passed into a sort of giddiness ; he fancied the 
pine-tree before him wavered, put out his hand to guard him- 
self, and then fell, with a loud noise in his ears. 

When Miss Brunei saw the gun tumble on the ground and 
heard fhe report, she clasped her hands over her eyes in a 
vague instantaneous horror of any possible result. The next 
moment she looked up, and there was a black mass lying on 
the ground behind the tall tree. Her only thought was that 
he lay dead there as she ran to him, and knelt down by him, 
and caught him round the neck. White-lipped, trembling in 
every limb, and quite unconscious of what she did, she put 
her head down to his and spoke to him. There were three 
words that she uttered in that moment of delirious pity, and 
self-reproach, and agony, which it was as well he did not hear; 
but uttered they were, never to be recalled. 

When he came to himself, he saw a white face bending 
over him, and had but a confused notion of what had occurred. 
With a vigorous effort, however, mental and physical, he 
pulled himself together and got into a sitting posture. 

“ I must have given you such a fright through my stupidity,” 
he said; but all the time he wondered to see a strange look 


riVS/LA^ ATTTJ^B. 


in her eyes — a look he had never seen therT before off tht 
stage— 2.'$> she knelt by him and held his hand in hers. She 
did not speak ; she only looked at him, with a vague, absent 
delight, as if she were listening to music. 

Poor creature ! ” he thought, “ she does not know how to 
say that she is sorry for having hurt me.” 

So he managed to get up a quite confident smile, and strug- 
gled to his feet, giving her his hand to raise her also. 

“ I suppose you thought you had killed me,” he said, with 
a laugh, “ but it was only the fright knocked me over. I am 
not hurt at all. Look here, the charge has lodged in the 
tree.” 

He showed her a splinter or two knocked off the bark of 
the tree, and a few round holes where the buck-shot had 
lodged ; but at the same time he was conscious of a warm 
and moist sensation creeping down his side, and down his arm 
likewise. Further, he pretended not to see that there was a 
line of red blood trickling gently over his hand, and that her 
dress had already caught a couple of stains from the same 
source. 

“ What’s that ? ” she said, with a terrified look, looking from 
her own hand, which was likewise stained, to his. It is 
blood — ^you have been hurt, and you won’t tell me. Don’t be 
so cruel,” she added, piteously, “ but tell me what I am to do, 
for I know you are hurt. What shall I do ? Shall I run to 
Hermann .? Shall I go for the count ? There is no water 
about here — ” 

“ Sit down on those ferns — that’s what you must do,” said 
Will, “ and don’t distress yourself. I suppose one of the spent 
shot has scratched me, or something like that ; but it is of no 
importance, and you mustn’t say anything about it. When 
the drive is over, I shall walk home. If I had only a little — 
a little—” 

By this time he had sat down, and as he uttered the words, 
another giddiness came over him, and he would have fallen 
back had she not hastily caught him and supported him. 

“It is the blood,” he said, angrily. “One would think I 
couldn’t afford to lose as much as the scratch of a penknife 
would let. Will you allow me to take off my coat ? — and if 
you could tie a handkerchief tightly round my arm — ” 

“ Oh, why did you not ask me to do so before ? ” she said, 
as she helped to uncover the limb that was by this time 
drenched in blood. 

“Think of what the deer would have suffered, if you had 


ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE. 


137 


hit him instead of me,” said Will, with a ghastly smile. “ He 
was a dozen yards nearer you. You seem to like long shots.” 

But there was a mute, pleading look in her eyes that seemed 
to appeal against his banter. She seemed to say to him by 
that dumb expression, “ You wrong me. You try to make us 
strangers by that assumed fun. You do it to cheer me ; but 
you make me a stranger to you, for you are not honest with 
me.” 

And somehow he read the meaning of her face ; and said 
to her, in a low voice, 

“ Shall I be frank with you This accident is likely to 
make us too close friends ; and it is better I should return to 
England, if you remain here.” 

For a moment their eyes met — on his side revealing a secret 
which she inwardly shuddered to read there ; on hers repeat- 
ing only that mystic, unfathomable expression which he remem- 
bered to have seen when he awakened out of his dream. 

That was all of explanation that passed between them. 
She knew now his secret, and by the sudden light of the rev- 
elation she looked swiftly back over some recent occurrences, 
and saw the purport of them written in words of fire. Her 
eyes fell ; her own secret was safe ; but this new burden of 
consciousness was almost as difficult to bear. 

At this moment the count and Hermann came up, followed 
by the nearest keepers and beaters. 

“There has been a slight accident,” said Will, briefly. 
“ Get some one to carry my gun, and I’ll walk back to Schon- 
stein.” 

“ If you would like to ride,” said Hermann — who, with the 
others, was quite deceived by Will’s manner — “ you can get 
Hans Halm’s 7m^en, that was waiting for the baskets and 
things. Spiesrelmann will show you the w^ay. You are not 
badly hurt ? ” 

“ Not at all ; not at all. Miss Brunei, will you continue 
with the party ? ” 

“ No,” she said, firmly ; “ I am going back to Schonstein.” 

“ And I,” said the count. “ I can’t allow you to go unat- 
tended. I don’t care about any more shooting — ” 

“ Nonsense ! ” said Will (with an inward conviction that 
two minutes’ more talking would find him stretched on the 
ground) ; “ go on with your sport, and I’ll come out to meet 
you in the evening.” 

Fortunately, when they reached the shaky old travelling- 
carriage outside the forest, they found some wine, a good 
draught of which somewhat revived the wounded man. The 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


13^ 

hampers and other things were speedily thrown out, and, 
Spiegelmann having returned to the shooting-party, Will and 
Miss Brunei got into the vehicle and were driven homeward. 

Neither spoke a single word all the way. Once, and quite 
inadvertently, her hand touched his, and she drew it away. 
The next moment she looked into his face, and perhaps saw 
some slight shade of vexation there, for she immediately cov- 
ered his stained fingers with her own. It was as though she 
said, “ I know your sad secret, but we may at least continue 
friends.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

FLIGHT. 

It was a change indeed ! Life all at once became solemn 
and full of mystery to her — full of trouble, too, and perplexity. 
So soon as a messenger had been despatched to Donau- 
eschingen for a surgeon who was skilled in the extraction of ‘ 
buck-shot, Annie Brunei went up to her own room, and sat 
down there alone. And she felt as if the air had grown thick 
around her, and was pressing on her; she felt that the old 
audacious cheerfulness had gone from her, and that the pas- 
sion and glow and terrible earnestness of her stage-life were 
invading this other life, which used to be full of a frivolous, 
careless happiness. 

Do the other animals become frightened and nervous when 
the love-making season comes suddenly upon them ? Does 
the lark, when her lover comes down from the sky, and sings, 

“ My dear soft-breasted little thing, will you be my wife ? will 
yon come and build a nest with me, and let me bring you 
scraps of food when you are tired?” — does she get into a 
state of great tremor, and fancy that the world has suddenly 
shifted its axis ? We know how the least impressionable of 
men are overawed by this strange natural phenomenon. The 
old ridiculousness of love, its silliness and comic aspects, are 
immediately blotted out from their mind by the contemplation 
of the awful truth, the awful change that lies before them. 
They shrink from physiology as a species of blasphemy. 
They will not accept scientific explanation of their idealisms ; 
nor will they believe that any man has ever experienced the 
sensation they now experience. 

But the ordinary awakening of a man or woman to the 


FLIGHT, 


139 


consciousness of being in love was a very different thing 
from the sudden revelation which confronted the young 
actress, as she sat there and pondered, in a bewildered way, 
over the events of the past hour. To love this man was a 
crime ; and its fatal consequences seemed to stretch on and 
on, and interweave themselves with her whole future life. 
How had she fallen into the snare .? And he was equally 
guilty ; for his eyes, more fully than his words, had in that 
supreme moment told her his tragic story. 

She thought of the violet-eyed Dove down in that Kentish 
vale. She thought of her, and mentally prayed for forgive- 
ness. 

She had but one sad consolation in the matter — ^her secret 
was her own. There now remained for her but to leave 
Schonstein at once, and the morning's events had paved the 
way for her decision. So she sent for Mrs. Christmas, and 
said to her, 

“ Don’t you think a cooler air than what we have here 
would suit you.better ” 

The old woman scrutinized her face curiously. 

“ What’s the matter with you. Miss Annie } You look as 
if you had just come off the stage, and were half bewildered 
by the part you had been playing! ” 

“ I want an answer, Mrs. Christmas. But I may tell you 
that I ask because I wish to leave this place at once. You 
needn’t ask why ; but if it will not incommode you to travel, 
I should like to go away now. There is Switzerland, not a 
day’s journey from here ; and there are some mountainous 
districts in this neighborhood — you may choose which you 
please — ” 

“Only I must choose to go,” said the old woman, patting 
her cheek. “ That’s yourself all over, as you used to be in 
the days when you tyrannized over me, and would always 
have your own way about arranging your parts. Well, Miss 
Annie, I’m ready to go now, if you like — only Hermann prom- 
ised to give me" two of the most beautiful deer-skins to be 
got in the Black Forest — ” 

“ They can be sent after us.” 

The evening was drawing towards dusk when the count 
returned. He was greatly shocked on discovering that the 
accident Y/ill had met with was mifcli more serious than had 
been fancied, and that the surgeon only stared in astonish- 
ment when asked if his patient could come down-stairs to 
dinner. 

“ A man who has lost so much blood,” said he, significantly, 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


146 

and speaking slowly, that the count might understand him, 
“ and who suffers from four or five gunshot wounds, is not 
likely to sit at table for a day or two.’’ 

Annie Brunei did not hear this conversation ; and as she 
still believed that Will had only been slightly hurt, and 
would be able to go about as usual, she informed the count 
at dinner of her intended departure. The Herr Graf looked 
from one to the other of his guests, without being able to utter 
a syllable. He had been congratulating himself on the bril- 
liant success of this excursion, on the evident gratification 
experienced by Miss Brunei, on her expressed admiration for 
Schonstein and all its surroundings. This decision of hers 
quashed his dearest hopes. 

“You surely do not intend to leave us so soon ? ” he said. 
“ Mrs. Christmas, are you the traitor in the camp ? ” 

Mrs. Christmas prudently forbore to reply. 

“ Think of leaving Mr. Anerley, after having knocked him 
over in that sportsman-like fashion ! ” exclaimed the count. 
“ He will think it very ungenerous of you.” 

“ I am extremely sorry,” she said, with a look of pained 
embarrassment on her dark, beautiful face, “ but I hope he 
will forgive our going.” 

“ He may, but I sha’n’t,” said the count. “ However, if you 
will, you will. In any case, I hope I may be allowed to 
escort you towards your new resting-place.” 

“ We should be more cruel still,” said the young girl, “ if 
we took you away from your friend. Believe me, we shall 
want no assistance.” 

The tone with which she uttered the words was decisive. 
It said, “ You are very kind ; but we mean to go alone.” 

The count did not enjoy his dinner that evening. He fan- 
cied there was something wrong in the arrangement of things 
— something incomprehensible, provoking, beyond the reach 
of his alteration. When he persuaded Annie Brunei and her 
guardian to accept his escort as far as Schonstein, he fancied 
his skilful calculations had delivered her into his hand. Was 
there a creature on earth — especially a woman — who could 
fail to be smitten with a covetous desire for the possession of 
Schonstein ? During that moody meal, while he sat almost 
angrily silent, two suggestions occurred to him. 

Could she have failed to perceive that she might be mis- 
tress of Schbnstein if she liked ? The count confessed that 
he had not made any demonstration of affection to her, sim- 
ply because he wished the natural effect of living at Schon- 


FLIGHT. 


i4t 

stein to influence her first, and predispose her towards accept- 
ing his more openly avowed attentions. 

Or was it possible that she had discovered her true posi- 
tion, and learned for herself the wealth and rank to which 
she was entitled ? But if she had made this discovery, he 
argued with himself, she would not have allowed herself to be 
the guest ol diparvenu count ; while he knew she had received 
no letters since his arrival. 

Seizing the more probable alternative, he bitterly regretted 
his not having made it more clear to her that a handsome 
fortune awaited her acceptance. In the mean time these 
regrets had the effect of making the dinner a somewhat dull 
affair ; and it was rather gruffly that he consented, after din- 
ner, to go round to the inn in order to inquire of Hans Halm 
the various routes to Switzerland. 

As they were going out, she said, 

“ Will you send word to Mr. Anerley that we shall only be 
absent for a short time, and that I hope he may be able to 
come down and see us when we return ? ” 

“ The surgeon is still with him,” said the count. “ I shall 
go up and see him myself when we come back.” 

It was a clear starlight night ; the waning moon had not 
yet risen. As they neared the few houses of Schonstein, and. 
saw the orange lights gleaming through the dusk, Mrs. Christ- 
mas caught her companion’s arm. 

They were by the side of the garden adjoining the inn, and, 
from a summer-house, which was half hidden among apple 
and plum trees, there came the sweet and tender singing of 
two young girls — a clear and high but somewhat undeveloped 
soprano, and a rich, full, mellow contralto. The three stood 
for a moment to listen, and the singers in the darkness pro- 
ceeded to another song — the old Volksweise that Crete and 
Hermann had been wont to sing : 

“ Im schonsten Wiesengrunde 
1st meiner Ileimath Haus, 

Da zog ich manche Stunde, 

In’s Thai, hinaus : 

Dich mein stilles Thai, griiss’ ich tausend Mai 1 

Da zog ich manche Stunde, in’s Thai hinaus.” 

It is Crete who sings, and I want to see her,” said Annie 
Brunei, stepping softly into the garden, and advancing to the 
summer-house. 

Crete was quite alone with her companion — a young girl 
who, Miss Brunei could see even in that partial darkness, was 
very pretty, and of a type much more common in the north 


143 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


of Baden and Bavaria than in the Schwarzwald. She was 
not over twelve years of age ; but she had the soft grave eyes, 
the high forehead, the flaxen hair, and general calm demeanor 
which characterize the intellectual South German. She was 
Crete’s confidante and companion ; and together, whenever 
they got a chance, they were accustomed to steal away to 
this summer-house, and sing those concerted melodies which 
the children of the Black Forest drink in with their mothers’ 
milk. 

Crete gave a little cry of surprise when she saw the dark 
form of the young English lady apjDcar ; and then her thought 
was that something had gone wrong with the gentleman who 
was wounded. 

“ I want you, Crete, for a moment,” said Annie Brunei, in 
French, to her. 

“ Ah, mademoiselle,” she said, dislocating her French in 
sudden compassion ; “ ce n’est pas que Monsieur Anerley se 
sent encore malade ? L’homme qui mon pbre envoyait cher- 
cher le m^decin me dit qu’il va meilleur — ” 

Don’t disquiet yourself, Crete,” said Miss Brunei. “Mr. 
Anerley is not severely hurt. I wanted to ask you if you 
would come with me to Switzerland.” 

“To Switzerland ! ” said Crete ; and her companion’s soft 
eyes looked up with a mystic wonder in them. 

“ Would you like to go ? ” 

“Yes, mademoiselle, very much; but I have promised to 
go to see my cousin Aenchen Baumer, at the Feldberg, in a 
day or two.” 

“ Come in-doors, let us hear what your father says. Your 
friend will forgive me for a few minutes.” 

They all then left the garden and went round to the front 
of the inn. They found the count and Mrs. Christmas stand- 
ing outside, and listening to the prodigious singing-bout 
which was being held within by the keepers and the beaters, 
the chorus following each verse of the various hunting-songs 
being followed by the measured beating of hands and feet on 
the tables and wooden floor. 

“ If mademoiselle goes forward to the window,” said the 
little grave German girl with the yellow hair, “ she will hear 
better, and Herr Spiegelmann is about to sing ‘ Der Weisse 
Hirsch.’ ” 

They all went forward to one of the many small windows, 
and looked in. The men were sitting in a picturesque un- 
dress round the table, their long-bowled china pipes in their 
fingers or mouth, and chopins of pale-yellow wine before them. 


FLIGHT. 


Crete’s father was standing by, laughing and joking with 
them, the old grandmother from time to time replenishing the 
tall transparent bottles. They had all been singing the elab- 
orate chorus to the hunting-song, “ Im Wald und auf der 
Haide ” — all except the ancient Spiegelmann, who sat 
solemnly over his pipe-tube, and winked his small black eyes 
occasionally, as if trying to shut in the internal pleasure the 
rattling melody gave him. His large black mustache caught 
the tobacco-smoke that issued from his lips ; and his 
wrinkled, weather-tanned face, like the other sunburnt faces 
around, caught a bronzed glow from the solitary candle be- 
fore him. 

“ The Spiegelmann missed a buck in the second drive,” 
said one. “ He will pay the forfeit of a song.” 

“ I was driving, not shooting, the roe,” growled the Spie- 
gelmann, though he was not displeased to be asked to sing. 

All at once, before any of his comrades were prepared, the 
venerable keeper, blinking fiercely, began to sing, in a low, 
querulous, plaintive voice, the first stanza of a well-known 
ballad, which ran somewhat in this fashion : 

“ ’Twas into the forest the sportsmen went, 

On shooting three white deer they were bent.” j. 

Suddenly, and while Miss Brunei fancied that the old man 
was singing apathetic song of his youth, there rung out a great 
hoarse chorus from a dozen bass voices — the time struck by 
a couple of dozen horny hands on the table : 

“ Husch, husch 1 bang, bang ! trara ! ’ 

Then Spiegelmann, gravely and plaintively as before, took 
up the thread of the wondrous story : 

“ They laid themselves down beneath a fir-tree. 

And a wonderful dream then dreamed the three, 

{All) Husch, husch 1 bang, bang 1 trara 1 ” 

Here a tall Italian-looking keeper, who hailed from the 
Tyrol, and who was sitting next to Spiegelmann, sung forth 
the experiences of the first dreamer : 

« I dreamed that as I went beating the bush, 

There ran out before me the deer — husch, husch 1 

His neighbor. Bagel, who had once been complimented by 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


M4 

Kaiser Francis of Austria, and was never done with the story, 
personated the second dreamer : 

“ And as from the yelp of the beagle he sprang, 

I riddled his hide for him there — ^bang, bang 1 ” 

The third from Spiegelmann ; a short, stout little man, called 
Falz who had once been a clock-maker in Whitechapel, was 
the next dreamer : 

“ So soon as the deer on the ground I saw, 

I merrily sounded my horn — trara 1 ” 

The burden of the tale now retu^ped to Spiegelmann, who 
thus finished it, and pointed the moral : 

“ Lo ! as they lay there and chatted, these three. 

Swiftly the wild deer ran past the tree ; 

And ere the three huntsmen had seen him aright. 

O’er hill and o’er valley he’d vanish from sight ! 

{All^ Husch, husch ! bang ! bang ! trara ! 

Husch, husch ! bang 1 bang ! trara ! ” 

“ I declare,” said little Mrs. Christmas, standing on tiptoe, 
to peep in at the window on the bronzed faces, and the dim 
candle, and the long narrow tables in the low-roofed room, 
“ it is quite like a scene in a play, though they don’t sing, 
very well.” 

“ They keep capital time,” said the count, who looked upon 
them as so many performing animals belonging to himself. 

“ Voulez-vous entrer, mademoiselle ? ” said Crete, hesitat- 
ingly. “ La fumde — j’en suis bien fachee — ” 

She went into the inn, nevertheless ; and Hans Halm was 
summoned to give his opinion about the various roads lead- 
ing down to Basle or Schaffhausen. Meanwhile, the keepers 
had sent a polite message, through Margarethe, to the young 
English lady, hoping that she enjoyed the day’s sport ; that 
her companion’s accident had not been serious ; and that 
she would not be annoyed to hear one or two of the old 
Schwarzwald songs. 

It was now for the first time that Annie learned the true 
extent of the injury which Will had suffered ; and this had 
the effect of immediately altering her resolutions. It was with 
a dangerous throb of the heart that she was told how he might 
not leave his bed for days, or even weeks, so prostrated was he 
by loss of blood ; and anxious, terribly anxious, as she was 
to get free from the place, she could not bear the thought of 


FLIGHT. 


US 

stealing away, and leaving him to the unknown chances of 
the future. 

The count had almost begun to fancy that it was the hor- 
ror of the accident that she had caused which was driving 
her away from the too painful witnessing of its results ; but 
she now said that she would not leave until Will was entirely 
out of danger. He could not understand her, or her mo- 
tives ; above all, he was puzzled by the unwonted earnestness 
of her expression — its new life and intensity. He new noth- 
ing of the fire at the heart which kept that slumbering light 
in the dark eyes. 

“ And in a few days, Crete, you go to the Feldberg ? ” she 
asked. 

“ Yes, mademoiselle.” 

“ Is there an inn there at which one can stay ? ” 

“ There is, mademoiselle — right on the top of the mountain, 
if you choose to go so high. My cousin Aenchen lives down 
in the valley.” 

“ I hope. Miss Brunei,” said the count, anxiously, “ you 
won’t think of leaving Schonstein so long as you remain in 
this district. The accident which has happened, I know, may 
rob the neighborhood of some of its attractions ; but what 
better will the Feldberg be ? ” 

She paid no attention to him. She was only determined 
not to see Will Anerley again ; and yet there was in her heart 
a vague desire to be near him — to be under the same day- 
light, to look on the same scenes, and hear the same quaint, 
strange talk that he listened to. 

‘‘ When must you go to see your cousin ? ” she asked. 

“ Very shortly,” said Crete. “Aenchen Baumer goes to 
a convent in Freiburg, where she will learn English, and fine 
needlework, and many things. She is a good friend of mine, 
and a companion once ; and I want to see her before she 
goes.” 

“ If you wait a few days, we shall go to the Feldberg to- 
gether.” 

Crete clasped her hands with delight. 

“ And will madame, your mamma, go also ? ” she asked, re- 
joiced to think she had not the journey to make alone. 

“Yes; but the lady is not my mamma, Crete. She died 
when I was scarcely your age ; and this is my second mother, 
who has been with me ever since.” 

All the next day she waited, lingering about, and unable 
to do anything in her feverish anxiety and impatience. She 
was not afraid to see him. She had. suddenly been awak- 


146 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


ened to a sweet and new consciousness of strength — a ful- 
ness of life and will which she knew would sustain her in 
any emergency. She had no fear whatever, so far as she 
herself was concerned. But she dreaded the possible effect 
of their meeting again in these too seductive circumstances ; 
she dreaded it, while she thought of Dove. Already there 
lay over her the shadow of the wrong done to the bright 
young English girl whose pretty ways and violet eyes she so 
well remembered — a wrong inscrutable, not to be condoned 
or forgotten. Whose was the fault "i She only knew that 
she dared no longer stay there after having once read Will’s 
secret in that quick mutual glance in the forest. 

Another day passed, and yet another : the torment was be- 
coming unbearable. She could not leave the place while 
danger yet hung over him ; on the other hand, her delay was 
provoking the chances of that very meeting which she had 
resolved should not take place. Many a time she thought 
she could go away happy and contenf if only she might shake 
hands with him and look once in his eyes ; then there came 
a misty remembrance of Dove’s face floating before her, and 
the young girl seemed to regard her reproachfully. 

She began to think that a little far off glimpse of him 
would do ; moderating her desires, she grew to long for that 
as the one supreme boon, bearing which with her she could 
go away with a glad heart. Only a glimpse of him to see 
how he looked, to bid a mute farewell to him, herself unseen. 

“Our patient is much better this morning,” said the count 
to her, on the fourth day. “Won’t you come up-stairs and 
see him ? ” 

“No,” she said, softly, looking down. 

She was more incomprehensible to him than ever. Form- 
erly she seemed to be quite familiar with him ; she was happy 
and careless in his presence ; she responded to his nonsense 
with nonsense of her own. Now she seemed to have been 
translated to another sphere. He was no longer jovial and 
jocular with her. He watched and studied the Madonna- 
like calm of the clear dark face, until he felt a sort of awe 
stealing over him ; the intense dark life of her eyes was a 
mystery to him. 

In these few days she began to wonder if she were not 
rapidly growing old : it seemed to her that everything around 
her was becoming so serious and so sad. 

“ And if I do look old, who will care ? ” she said to herself, 
bitterly. 

The count, on the other hand, fancied she had never been 


FLIGHT, 


M7 


SO beautiful ; and, as he looked on her, he tried to gladden 
his heart by the thought that he was not a mercenary man. 
To prove to her and himself that he was not, he swore a men- 
tal oath that he would be rejoiced to see her a beggar, that 
so he might lift her up to his high estate. Indeed, so mad 
was the man at the time — so much beside himself was he — 
that he was ready to forswear the only aim of his life, and 
would have married Annie Brunei only too willingly, had it 
been proved to him that she was the daughter of a gypsy. 

“ Another day’s rest is all that the doctor has prescribed,” 
said the count. “ I hope to see our friend down to breakfast 
to-morrow morning.” 

“ Is he so much better ? she asked. 

She inquired in so earnest a tone that he fancied her 
anxiety was to know if the damage she had done was nearly 
mended, and so he said : 

“ Better ? He is quite better now. I think he might 
come down and see us this morning, unless you would prefer 
paying him a visit.” 

Immediately after breakfast Miss Brunei went over to the 
inn, and there she found Hans Halm and his daughter. 

“ Crete,” she said, “ could you go to the Feldberg to-day ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Crete. 

“ Could you be ready to start by twelve o’clock ? ” 

“ My father’s wagen has gone to Donaueschingen, made- 
moiselle,” she said. 

“ The count will lend us a carriage, and you must come 
with me.” 

The matter having been arranged, she returned to the 
count, and told him of her intention, firmly and quietly. A 
week previous he would have laughed, and pooh-poohed the 
notion ; now he was excessively courteous, and though he 
regretted her decision, he would do everything in his power, 
etc. 

“Will you let Hermann come with us as far as the Feld- 
berg?” 

“ I devote Hermann entirely to your service for a week — 
a month — as long as you choose,” said the count. 

English Polly was got up from the kitchen — where she had 
established a species of freemasonry between herself and the 
German servants — to assist in the packing ; and while she and 
Mrs. Christmas were so engaged, Annie Brunei sat down and 
wrote these lines on a slip of paper : 

“ I am glad to hear you are better. You wished us not to 


14 ^ 


W SILK A TTIKE, 


meet again, and as it Is easier for me to go than you, I leave 
here in an hour. You will for^ve me for having caused you 
so much pain. Good-bye. A. B.” 

She put the paper in the envelope, and took it down to the 
count. 

“ I have written a note to Mr. Anerley, explaining our go- 
ing away so abruptly. Will you please send it to him ? 

“ I will take it to him myself,” said the count, and he took 

it. 

A few minutes afterward, when the count returned, she was 
seated at the window, looking out with vague, absent eyes on 
the great undulations of the black-green forest, on the soft sun- 
light that lay uppn the hills along the horizon, and on the lit- 
tle nook of Schbnstein, with the brown houses, the white 
church, and the large inn. She started slightly as he en- 
tered. He held another envelope in his hand. 

“ I have brought a reply,” he said, “ but a man does not write 
much with his left hand, in bed.” 

On a corner of the sheet of paper she had sent, there were 
written these words, “ I thank you heartily. God bless you ! — 
W. A.” And her only thought as she read them was, “Not 
even in England — not even in England.” 

Grete appeared, blushing in her elaborate finery. Her vi- 
olet bodice was resplendent, with its broad velvet collar em- 
broidered with gold ; her snow-white sleeves were full-blown 
and crimp ; and her hair was braided, and hung down in two 
long tails from underneath the imposing black head-dress, with 
its ornamentation of gold beads. Grete had manufactured an- 
other of those embroidered miracles, which she was now carry- 
ing in her trunk to Aenchen Baumer. It was with a little sob 
of half-hysteric delight that she drove out of the stone court- 
yard, and realized the stupendous fact that Hermann Lowe 
was to accompany them to the Feldberg. 

Mrs. Christmas, studying the strange expression of her 
adopted daughter’s face, thought she was becoming remarka- 
bly like the Annie Napier whom she knew long ago. 

“ May she have a very different fate ! ” said the old woman 
to herself, as she thought of the weary and solitary life-strug- 
gle, the self-denial, the heroic fortitude of those by-gone and 
bitter days. 


/A >.!//•. WARD, 


149 


CHAPTER XX. 

HOMEWARD. 

“ If mademoiselle chooses,” said Crete, “ we can walk 
along the side of the Titi See, and allow the carriage to go on by 
itself. The road is very pretty from the lake onward to the 
Feldberg.” 

Mademoiselle was in that frame of mind when any change 
involving action was a delicious releif, and she gladly em- 
braced the proposal. 

“ If the old lady prefers to drive all the way,” said Crete, 
with a touch of maidenly pride, “ Hermann ought to accompany 
her. I can find the way for us two, mademoiselle.” 

That also was agreed to, the distance being too great for Mrs 
Christmas to walk. And so Annie Brunei and Crete Halm set 
out upon the winding path, or rather track, which runs along 
the shore of the beautiful Titi See — here skirting the edge 
of the rocky promontories which jut out into the still blue lake, 
there cutting through the dense coppices lying in the sunshine 
along the foot of the hills, or again passing some deep-roofed 
and sleepy farm-house, with its small stone chapel standing in 
the yard. Crete reverentially crossed herself every time they 
passed one of these numerous private chapels ; and her com- 
panion, peeping in through the wooden bars, generally saw 
within the sanctuary a large framed lithograph of the Virgin 
Mary in red and blue, with a vast number of little gilt trinkets 
and other pious offerings hung on the altar. Some of these 
chapels had forms within capable of accommodating a congre- 
gation of from twelve to twenty persons. One or two people had 
built no chapel at all, but had hollowed out a niche in the wall 
surrounding their garden, and had placed therein a wooden 
crucifix, more or less painted, exhibiting the details of the Cruci- 
fixion with mediaeval exactitude. And Crete, being a good 
girl, crossed herself as she saw these humble memorials of a 
devout faith. 

“Why did you send Hermann away, Crete?” said Annie 
Brunei, as they walked along. 

“ Because, mademoiselle, I wished him to know that I 
could do without him,” said Crete Halm. 

“ You are very fond of him, are you not ? ” 

“ Yes, mademoiselle, but — ” 

“ And he of you ? ” 

“ He is very fond of me, I know,” said Crete, simply. 


150 


JN SILK A TTIRE. 


“ I don’t wonder at it ; but have you ever asked yourself 
why he is fond of you ? ” 

“ Why, mademoiselle ? Because — because I am a girl and 
he is a man, and he wants to be married.” 

Annie Brunei laughed ; it was the first smile her companion 
had seen on her face for some days. 

“ But suppose he did not want to be married — suppose he 
could not be married to you — would he be fond of you ? Or 
suppose you knew, Crete, that he was to marry some one else, 
what would you do ? ” 

“ I should do nothing, mademoiselle ; I should be miser- 
able.” 

“ You would not cease to love him ? ” 

“If I could, yes; if not — ” 

“ If not, you would only be miserable.” 

The tone in which the words were uttered caused Crete to 
look up suddenly in her companion’s face. She saw nothing 
there but the inwardly reflecting eyes, the beautiful, pale, 
dark complexion, and the placid sweetness of the unkissed 
lips. 

‘ “ In England, Crete, I am an actress. They say that 

an actress must never reflect, that she lives for immediate 
gratification, that she educates impulses, and that she cannot 
pause, and regard her position, and criticise herself. If I 
cease to feel any pleasure in immediate gratifications, if I 
feel ill at ease and dissatisfied with myself, and fancy that 
the stage would no longer give me any pleasure, must I 
cease to be an actress ? ” 

“ Is mademoiselle in earnest ? ” 

Crete Halm could not believe that her companion was an 
actress. Had she ever seen, even in Carlsruhe itself, an act- 
ress with such a noble air, with such a face, and such a 
manner ? 

“ I am in earnest, Crete. I have been an actress all my 
life ; I feel as if I were one no longer.” 

“What has changed you, mademoiselle, may I be permitted 
to ask ? ” 

“ I do not know myself, Crete. But I have turned an old 
woman since I came to the Black Forest; and I shall go 
back to England with a sort of fear, as if I had never been 
there before.” 

Since she came to the Black Forest For a moment a sus- 
picion crossed Crete’s mind that she must be miserable 
through loving some one ; but so completely had she been 
imbued witli the idea of her companion being some myste- 


HOMEWARD. 


»5r 

riously beautiful and noble creature, who could not be moved 
by the meaner loves and thought^ of a girl like herself, that 
she at once dismissed the supposition. Perhaps, she thought, 
the shock of severely injuring her friend still affected her, and 
had induced a temporary despondency. Crete therefore re- 
solved, in her direct way, to be as amusing as possible ; and 
she never tired of directing her companion’s attention to the 
beautiful and wonderful things they saw on their way— the 
scarlet grasshoppers which rattled their wings among the 
warm grass, the brilliantly colored beetles, the picturesque 
crucifixes by the way-side, or the simultaneous splash of a lot 
of tiny fish among the reeds, as some savage pike made a 
rush at them from the deeper water. 

In process of time they left the soft blue breadth of the 
lake behind them, and found themselves in the valley lead- 
ing up to the Feldberg. Crete struck an independent zigzag 
course up the hill’s side, clambering up the rocky slopes, cut- 
ting through patches of forest, and so on, until they found 
themselves on the high mountain road leading to their desti- 
nation. Nothing was to be seen of the carriage ; and so they 
went on alone, into the silence of the tall pines, while the 
valley beneath them gradually grew wider, and the horizon 
beyond grew more and more distant. Now they were really 
in the Black Forest of the old romances ; not the low-lying 
districts, where the trees are of modern growtli, but up in 
the rocky wilderness, where the magnificent trunks were en- 
crusted and coated with lichens of immemorial age — where 
the sjDongy yellow-green moss, here and there of a dull crim- 
son, would let a man sink to the waist — where the wild pro- 
fusion of underwood was rank and strong with the heat of 
the sun and the moisture of innumerable streams trickling 
down their rocky channels in the hill-side — where the yellow 
light, falling between the splendid stems of the trees, glim- 
mered away down the narrow avenues, and seemed to con- 
jure up strange forms and faces out of the still brushwood 
and the fantastic gray lichens which hung everywhere around. 
Several times a cock capercailzie, with two or three hens 
under his protection, would rise with a prodigious noise and 
disappear in the green darkness overhead ; occasionally a 
mountain-hare flew past ; and Crete, with an inherited interest, 
pointed out to her friend the tiny footmarks of the deer on 
the sand of the rough and winding road. 

“ See, mademoiselle, there is Aenchen Baumer’s house.” 
They had come to an opening in the pines which revealed 
the broad yellow valley beneath, with its sunlit road running 


152 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


like a thread of silk through it. Crete’s friend’s house was a 
little white building with green casements, and a few vines 
growing up one of the gables : it was separated from the 
road by a paling which interrupted the long line of rough 
stone posts which a paternal government had stuck in the 
ground to prevent carriages tumbling still farther down into 
the bed of the hollow. 

“ You have come a long way out of your road, Crete,” said 
Miss Brunei. 

“ I came to accompany you, mademoiselle. I can easily 
go back to Aenchen’s house before the evening.” 

The upward road now grew more and more jagged, rough, 
and full of mud-holes, until at last they left the forest region 
altogether, and got into the high pasture districts of the . 
mountain. Finally, as the path became a track, grass-grown 
and rocky, they arrived at a square gray building, with a 
small garden attached, which stood on the summit of the 
shoulder of the hill. 

“ It is the Feldberg Inn,” said Crete. 

“ Is it pleasant to live on the top of the mountain ? ” asked 
her companion. 

“ Oh yes, mademoiselle ; only it is a little cold. And 
when you look out at .night, in the moonlight, it frightens 
one ; for all the house seems surrounded by a yellow mist, 
which floats ajjout and makes figures, and then sweeps away, 
and you see the garden sharp and clear. It is the clouds, 
you know. Franz Cersback has told me of his having been 
on the top of the Niessen one morning before sunrise, and 
while all the great mountains opposite — the Jungfrau, and 
the Monch, and the Eiger, and all these — were still cold and 
dark, he saw Monte Rosa and Mont Blanc, away down in 
in the south, with a pale pink flame on their peaks in the 
midst of the green sky. Here we have no snow on our 
mountains, except in the winter-time ; and then sometimes 
the people up here have their supplies cut off for a long 
time.” 

There was a tall, fair-faced, sleepy-looking man standing 
at the door of the inn, with whom Crete shook Bands. The 
giant blushed slightly, answered her questions in laconic 
monosyllables, and then led the way into the house, appar- 
ently relieved to be out of the observation of the two girls. 

“ It is the landlord’s brother,” said Crete,, “ and a friend 
of mine.” 

“ You have a number of friends,” said Annie Brunei, with 


HOMEWARD, 


153 


a smile ; “ and they seem to be all big men. If you were as 
small as I am, one might account for your liking big men.” 

Crete Halm looked at her companion. There could be 
no doubt about the German girl being the taller and certain- 
ly the stouter of the two ; and yet until that moment she 
had fancied that Miss Brunei was ever so much taller than 
she. 

“ It is the manner of your walk, mademoiselle, and your 
figure, and perhaps the expression of your face, that make 
me think you tall. No, I see you are not tall.” 

For a moment Margarethe’s soft brown eyes dwelt on her 
companion — perhaps with a touch of wistful, puzzled longing 
to know why grace of form should so touch our sympathies ; 
then she turned to the large Heinrich Holzmann, whose big 
shoulders should have been more attractive to a girl’s eye 
than another girl’s waist, and said that the young English 
lady wished the best apartments in the house. Margarethe 
further gave him to understand that his guests would be very 
particular about their cookery ; and, above all, that they 
would not submit to have but one fork and knife to attend 
them through four or five courses. Heinrich said “ Yaw ” in 
a grave manner to all her directions, and begged her to tell 
the English lady that his brother, who spoke French, would 
be home next day. 

“ But the lady and her friend, who will be here presently, 
must not starve till to-morrow,” said the practical Crete. 

“ Nein,” said Heinrich, absently. 

“ I mean they must have dinner here, and you must look 
after it, Heinrich Holzmann.” 

“ You have plenty in the house ? ” 

“ The lady says that after the carriage arrives you can have 
dinner prepared ; that is, the lady and her friend at one 
table, and Hermann Lowe, the coachman, and I at another. 
Do you understand ? ” 

“ Freilich.” 

“ If the girls want help, ask me.” 

“ Danke schon, Crete.” 

And as you don’t seem to have anybody here, shall I take 
the lady iip-stairs and pick out what rooms she wants ? ” 

“ Yes, if that pleases you,” said the fair-haired giant ; and 
therewith he opened the door for Miss Brunei, and made her 
a grave bow as she went with Crete into the passage, and so 
up to the rooms above. 


'54 


IN SILK ATTTRE. 


It was nearly half an hour afterward that the carriage 
arrived ; -and Mrs. Christmas, with much excitement, caught 
Annie in her arms and kissed her, declaring she had never 
expected to see her again. The road they had come 1 — the 
precipices they had skirted, with the three horses slipping on 
the smooth rocks at the very brink ! — the vehicle leaning 
over as if it were about to topple headlong down ! — the jolt- 
ing into deep ruts and over blocks of stone ! 

“ I screamed,” she said, “ and insisted on being helped out 
of the carriage ; for they would have me sit still, declaring 
there was no danger. Danger ! ” 

And the little woman shivered. 

“ So you walked all the way ? 

“ Until we got down into the valley.” 

Crete and Hermann were invited to dine with the two 
ladies, and in the evening they all conveyed the young German 
girl down to the house of her friend. 

For several days they remained on the Feldberg, beguiling 
the time as best they might. Mrs. Christmas had now quite 
recovered her normal condition of health and spirits, and 
labored hard to discover why her companion was so preoccu- 
pied, restless, and absent in manner. Why, too, was this 
journey down through Switzerland being indefinitely post- 
poned ? Every morning it was — 

“ Miss Annie, do we start to-day ? ” 

“ Not to-day, mother. Let us have another day’s quiet.” 

“ You will kill yourself with dulness. Miss Annie. There 
is nothing for you to do.” 

“ Let us climb to the top of the peak, and see the tower.” 

“ I have tried twice, and failed. And if you persist in going 
up there alone, you will tumble down into that' horrible lake 
you told me of.” 

“ Then let us descend to the lake to-day, if you please.” 

She could not leave the neighborhood. She lingered there, 
day after da)% that she might have tidings from Schonstein. 
Two letters she had received from the count told her nothing 
definite; they were very polite, grave, respectful communica- 
tions, in which, he hoped she would visit Schonstein again on 
her return. Hermann, on going back to his master, had 
written to Crete Halm, and merely mentioned that the English 
gentleman was still in his room, and that the surgeon did not 
speak very confidently of the case. 

This day, also, she prevailed on Mrs. Christmas to stay ; 
and together, after breakfast, they set out in quest of the 
Feldsee, the small lake that lies deep down in the heart of the 


HOMEWARD. 


155 


mountain. They Were furnished with a few directions from 
Heinrich Holzmann’s brother ; but as neither time nor direc- 
tion was of much consequence to them, they plunged care- 
lessly into the forest, and proceeded slowly to descend the 
side of the mountain. At last, they came upon a path which 
led down through the jumbled and picturesque confusion of 
shattered rock, smooth bowlder, moss, fern, and herbage, that 
lay around the foot of the tall resinous-smelling pines ; and 
this track they leisurely followed until, from the twilight of 
the trees, it led them out into the obscure daylight which 
dwelt over the gloomy tarn they sought. 

Nothing could well be more lonely or melancholy than this 
dark and silent lake, lying in its circular bed — evidently an ex- 
tinct volcanic crater — overshadowed by tall and perpendicular 
crags hemming it in on every side, and scarcely ever having 
a breath of wind to stir its leaden-like surface. The tall, thinly 
clad rocks, rising to the circular breadth of white sky above, 
were faintly mirrored in the black water underneath ; and the 
gloomy stillness of the quiet, motionless picture was not re- 
lieved by the least stir or sound of any living thing. This hide- 
ous hole, its surface nearly four thousand feet above the level of 
the sea, is of unknown depth. No wonder that the super- 
stitious Schwarzwalders have legends about it, and that the 
children tell you of the demon-deer that was wont to spring 
over the tall precipices above, and so lure on the unwary 
huntsman and his horse to destruction. 

There was a boat lying moored in a creek at one corner of 
the lake, and of this Annie Brunei at once took possession. 
She insisted on Mrs. Christmas getting into it ; and then, 
with a few strokes of the oars, she pulled out to the center of 
the lake. Mrs. Christmas did not at all like the aspect of 
the place ; and if she had known that she was floating over 
an extinct volcano, she would probably have liked it less. 

“ It looks like a place for murders to be committed,” she 
said. 

When they had reached the centre of the dark water, Annie 
laid aside the oars, and seated herself in the stern of the 
boat w'ith her companion. There was no wind, no current : 
the boat remained almost motionless. 

The old woman took the young girl’s hand, and said to 
her, 

“ Come now, Miss Annie, you must tell me what has been 
the matter with you lately. What has vexed you, or what 
troubles you ? ” 


156 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


“ I have been thinking of returning to England,” she said, 
absently. 

“ Why should that trouble you ? ” 

“ I am afraid of going back.” 

“ Bah ! I have no patience with you. You are as much a 
child as ever — as when you used to whimper in a make- 
believe way, and cause your mother to laugh and cry together 
over your natural turn for acting.” 

“My natural turn for acting is going — is nearly gone,” said 
she, with a smile “ and that is what I am afraid about. I 
am beginning to fear a lot of faces.” 

“ Then why will you remain in such a dreadfully lonely 
place as this mountain inn ? That it is which breeds strange 
fancies in you, my girl, don’t doubt of it. Afraid of faces ! 
Didn’t you use to tell me that you were never conscious of 
seeing a face at all when you were on the stage ? ” 

“ I may have said so,” she replied, musingly. “ I don’t 
think I ever did see faces, except as vague orange-colored 
lamps in a sort of ruddy darkness, over the blaze of the foot- 
lights, you know. Certainly I never thought of them, nor 
heeded them. When I went off, and heard the noise of their 
hands and feet, it seemed like the sound of some machine 
with which I had no concern. I don’t think I ever feared 
an audience in my life. My mother used to be my audience 
as she stood in the wings and looked at me with the half- 
smile and kindly eyes I remember so well ; and then I used 
to try to please you, you know, and never succeeded, as you 
also know, Lady Jane; and lately I have not thought of 
pleasing anybody, but of satisfying a sort of delirium that 
came over me.” 

“ You never pleased me ! You wicked creature ! If I 
were blind, and came into a theatre where I heard you play- 
ing your Juliet, my eyes would open of their own accord.” 

“That time has passed over, Lady Jane. I am afraid of 
going to England. I should see all the faces now, and won- 
der what the people weie saying of my hands outstretched, 
or of my kneeling posture, or of my elocution. I feel that if 
I were to get up just now, in this boat, and speak two sen- 
tences — ” 

“You would have us both laughing. But did you ever Iry 
before, my dear, to act to a scene ? You might as well tr}* 
to speak to an empty theatre as to that horrible loneliness 

over there. It was Mr. Bridges, the stage-manager at N , 

if you remember. Miss Annie, who used to rehearse in the 
r.t^rning his speech before the curtain — used to wave his 


HOMEWARD, 


157 


hand and smile to the empty benches, and then bow himself 
out backward. But at night, when the people were there, 
he always forgot the smile and the wave of the hand, and 
mumbled like a school-boy. And as for your not being able 
to act when you hear the stir of a crowded house on the 
other side of the curtain, and know there are a dozen bou- 
quets waiting for you in the boxes, why it’s nonsense, my 
dear.” 

“ I am afraid of it none the less, mother, and I shall dread 
putting myself to the test.” 

“ All the result of this living out of the world,” said Mrs. 
Christmas, dogmatically. “ Say, shall we start to-morrow 
morning, Miss Annie ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

When they returned to the inn there was a letter from 
Schonstein awaiting Miss Brunei. She knew from the pecu- 
liar handwriting who had sent it, and opened it joyfully, 
knowing that he was at least well enough to write. These 
were the words : 

“ Schonstein, Thursday. 

“ My dear Miss Brunel, — Ever since you left I have 
bitterly reproached myself for having given you so much 
annoyance and trouble. I hear that you are living, without 
amusement or companions, in the Feldberg Inn. May I beg 
of you to return here, adding the assurance that you will not 
be troubled by my presence in any way whatever ? Whether 
you do or not, I cannot permit you to leave without bidding 
you good-bye^ especially as we may not see each other in 
England ; and so, if you will forgive me this once, I pro- 
pose to cross over to the Feldberg to-morrow and visit you,” 
etc., etc. 

She read no more ; the cramped left-hand writing had told her 
enough. She hurriedly wrote a reply, peremtorily forbidding 
him to^be at the trouble and danger of such an expedition ; 
and added that before he could possibly be at the Feldberg 
she would be on her way to Freiburg and Basle. Then she 
called the elder Holzmann,*and desired him to get a mes- 
senger to take over this letter to Schonstein that day, and 
informed him that on the next morning she and her compan- 
ion would set out for the South. 

It was a point of maidenly honor with her that she should go 
away with her sad secret her own ; and who could tell what dis- 
closure might happeit, were she to see him suffering from 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


158^ 

the effects of the wound, entreating her to stay, and with his 
own love for her speaking in his eyes ? He was a man, and 
it did not matter; as for her, she closed this fatal tenderness 
in her heart, and would fain have deceived herself into deny- 
ing its existence. Truth to say, she felt a touch of shame at 
her own weakness ; was dimly conscious that her virginal 
purity of soul was tainted by a passion which she dreamed 
was a guilty one ; and knew ’that her punishment lay in the 
loss of that innocent gayety and thoughtlessness which had 
hitherto made her life so pleasant. 

“ ‘ We may not see each other in England,’ ” she said to 
herself, gazing at the crooked and trembling lines on the 
paper. “ Not in England, nor elsewhere, will be my con- 
stant prayer so long as I live.” 

So they left the gloomy mountain, and, passing through 
the Hollenthal once more, reached Freiburg; and from 
thence, by easy stages, they made the round of the Swiss 
lakes, until, as fate would have it, they came to Thun. 
There they rested for a day or two, preparatory to their 
undertaking the voyage to England. 

Here a strange incident befel Annie Brunei. Their first 
walk lay along the shore of the lake ; and no sooner had 
they left the side of the rapid, bright-green Aar than Mrs. 
Christmas noticed a strange, intense look of wonder settling 
over her companion’s face. Wistfully, and yet curiously, the 
dark -gray eyes dwelt on the expanding lake, on the long 
curving bays, on the sunlit mountains opposite, and on the 
far-off snow-peaks of the Bernese Alps. 

“ I have seen all this in a dream,” she said. 

“Or in a picture,” suggested Mrs. Christmas. 

“It is more than a dream or a picture,” she continued, in 
a half-frightened way, as they walked along. “ I know the 
place — I know it — ^the shore over there, the village down 
yonder at the point, and the smoke hanging over the trees ; 
I am getting quite giddy with — remembering — ” 

“ My dear ! ” said Mrs. Christmas. 

Her companion was now quite pale, and stood fixed to the 
spot, looking over the long scene in front of her with a wild 
stare. Then she turned round, as if almost in fear, and no 
sooner had she done so than she uttered a slight cry, and 
seemed ready to sink to the ground. 

“ I knew it ! I knew it ! ” she said. “ I knew the house 
was there before I turned my head.” 

She looked up at the handsome building on the plateau 


IN ENGLAND. 


^59 


above, as if it were some horrible thing come to torture her. 
It was only the house in which Harry Ormond had bidden 
her mother farewell. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

IN ENGLAND. 

Mr. Melton was overjoyed to see Annie Brunei in London 
again. He had spent half his fortune in beautifying his thea- 
tre, in getting up elaborate scenery for the new piece with 
which he was to welcome the return to town of his patrons, 
and in providing costly properties. So long as the heroine of 
the piece was wandering among the mountains of the Schwarz- 
wald, it was impossible that the manager’s mind could be 
well at ease. 

“ You shall come round now and see what we have done 
for you, and give us your opinion,” said he, politely. 

Indeed, he would like to have kissed her just then, in a 
fatherly way, to show how delighted he was to have her back 
again. He saw pictures of overflowing audiences before his 
mind as he looked on the quiet little figure before him, on the 
dark face, and the large, grave eyes. 

It was about eleven o’clock in the forenoon. A tolerably 
clear light fell upon the stage, a duskier twilight hung over 
the rows of empty benches in the pit, and the gloomy dark- 
ness behind the galleries was here and there lighted up by a 
solitary lamp. One or two gilders were still at work on the 
front of the dress-circle ; overhead an echoing clang of ham- 
mer and nail told that carpenters were busy ; and a vague 
shouting from the dusky region of the ‘‘ flies ” revealed the 
presence of human beings in those dim Olympian heights. 
Everywhere, as usual, the smell of escaped gas ; here and there 
an odor of size or paint. 

As they descended from the dark corridor behind the dress- 
circle into the wings, a mass of millinery ran full-tilt against 
Mr. Melton, and then started back with a slight cry and a 
giggle. 

“ God bless my soul ! ” said the manager, piously, although 
that was not the part of his body which had suffered, f 

The next moment Miss Featherstone had thrown her arms 
around Annie Brunei’s neck, and was kissing her, and calling 
her “ My dear ” with that profusion of sentiment which most 


i6o 


JN SILK A TTJRE. 


actresses love to scatter over the object, pro tem,y of their 
affection. Miss Featherstone was attired in a green-silk 
dress — in many a love-scene had that rather dingy piece of 
costume figured, on the stage and elsewhere — a blue-cloth 
jacket, a white hat with a scarlet feather, and yellow gloves. 
During this outburst of emotion Mr. Melton had caught sight 
of a young gentleman to whom he gave thirty shillings a week 
in order that he might dress as a gentleman should, and 
always have a good hat to keep on his head while walking 
about in a drawing-room — who had been in pursuit of Miss 
Featherstone, and who now sneaked away in another direc- 
tion. 

“ And so you’ve come back, my dear, and none of the Ger- 
man princes have run away with you ! And how well you 
look ! I declare I’m quite ashamed of myself when I see the 
color in your cheeks ; but what with rehearsals, you know, 
my dear, and other troubles — ” 

She heaved a pretty and touching sigh. She intimated 
that these quarrels with the young gentleman who escorted 
her to and from the stage-door — quarrels which came off at a 
rate of about seven per week — were disturbing the serenity 
of her mind so far as to compel her to assist nature with violet- 
powder and rouge. 

“Do you know, my’ dear,” she said, in a whisper that sent 
Mr. Melton away on his own business, “ he swears he will 
forsake me forever if I accept a part in which I must wear 
tights. How can I help it, my dear ? What is a poor girl to 
do?” 

“Wear trousers,” said Annie Brunei, with a smile. 

“Nothing will please him. He would have all my comic 
parts played in a train half a mile long. At last I told him 
he had better go and help my mother to cut my skirts and 
petticoats of a proper length ; and he pretended to be deeply 
hurt, and I haven’t seen him since.” 

Then she tossed her wilful little head with an air of defi- 
ance. 

“ He will write to me before I write to him.” 

“ It is too cruel of you,” said her companion. 

“ Yes, my dear, you may laugh ; but you have no burlesque 
parts to play. And you have nobody sitting in the stalls 
watclnng your every movement, and keeping you in a fright 
abourwhat he is thinking of you.” 

“ No,” said Annie Brunei, rather absently, “ I have nobody 
to watch me like that. If I had, I should not be able to go 
upon the stage, I think.” 


IN ENGLAND, 


i6t 

“ And the bitter things he says about the profession — and 
particularly about Mr. Gannet, and Mr. Marks, and Mr. 
Jobson — all because they are young men, and he fancies 
they may be so polite as to lift a glove for me if I let it fall. 
You know, my dear, that /don’t encourage them. If there’s 
any fun at rehearsal, you know that / don’t begin it.” 

“ When we met you just now — ” 

“ That was only some of Mr. Murphy’s nonsense. Oh, I 
declare to you, no one knows what I have suffered ! The 
other evening, when he and I got into a cab, he glared at the 
man who opened the door for us. And the fuss he makes 
about cosmetic and bismuth is something dreadful.” 

“ He must be a monster.” 

There now ensued a little fragment of thorough comedy. 
For a moment the elderly young lady, who had been assum- 
ing throughout the tone of a spoiled child, stood irresolute. 
There was a petulance on her face, and she had half a mind 
to go away in high dudgeon from one who was evidently 
laughing at her. Then through this petulance there broke a 
sort of knowing smile, while a glimmer of mischievous intelli- 
gence appeared in her eyes; and then, with an unaffected 
comical giggle, she once more threw her arms round Annie 
Brunei’s neck and kissed her. 

“ I’m very wicked, I know,” she said, with a shrug of the 
shoulders, “ but I can’t help it. What’s bred in the bone, 
you know. And it’s all the men’s fault, for they keep teas- 
ing one so. As for him^ if he writes to me, and makes an 
apology, and promises to be a good boy. I’ll make friends 
with him. And I’ll be very good myself — for a week,” 

It was with a cold inward shiver that Annie Brunei stepped 
out upon the stage and looked round the empty theatre. She 
tried to imagine it full of people, and yellbw light, and stir, 
and she knew within herself she dared not venture be- 
fore them. Even without that solitary pair of eyes watching 
her movements, and without the consciousness that she 
might be producing a strong impression, for good or evil, on 
one particular person whose estimation she desired, she 
trembled to think of the full house, and the rows of faces, 
and her own individual weakness. 

“ What do you think of the decorations. Miss Brunei ? ” 
said Mr. Melton, coming up. 

“ They are very pretty,” she said, mechanically. 

“ With your Rosalind, the theatre should draw all London 
to it.” 


II 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


162 

It is Rosalind you mean to play ? ” she asked, scarcely 
knowing what she said. 

Certainly ! ” replied the manager, with astonishment. 
“ Don’t you remember our agreement ? If you turn round, 
you will see the new forest-scene Mr. Gannet has painted; 
perhaps it may remind you of something in the Black 
Forest.” 

For a moment or two she glanced over the great breadth 
'of canvas, covered with gnarled oaks, impossible brushwood, 
and' a broad, smooth stream. With a short “No, it is not 
like the Black Forest,” she turned away again. 

“ Miss Featherstone wall play Celia ; and you know there 
is not a Touchstone in the world to come near Bromley’s. 
Mrs. Wilkes refuses to play Audrey, luckily, and Miss Alford 
will play it a deal better. I have had several rehearsals, 
everybody is declared letter-perfect ; and we only want you 
to put the keystone to the arch, as one might say.” 

She turned quickly round, and said to him, 

“ If I were at the last moment prevented from playing in 
the piece, could Miss Featherstone take Rosalind, and some 
one else play Celia.?” 

“ What do you mean, my dear Miss Brunei .? ” said the 
manager, aghast. “You frighten me, I assure you. I calcu- 
lated upon you ; and after all this expense, and your agree- 
ment, and — ” 

“ Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Melton,” she said, quietly. 
“ I mean to play the part so as to give every satisfaction both 
to you and myself, if I can. I only asked in the event of 
any accident.” 

“ Come,” said he, kindly, “ I can’t have you talk in that 
strain, with such a prospect before us. Why, we are going 
to set all London, as well as the Thames, on fire, and have 
the prices of the stalls going at a hundred per cent, premium. 
An accident ! Bah ! I wish Count Schonstein were here to 
laugh the notion out of your head.” 

So it was, therefore, that the play was put in full rehearsal 
for several days, and Mr. Melton looked forward hopefully to 
the success of his new venture. Sometimes he was jl little 
disquieted by the remembrance of Miss Brunei’s singular 
question ; but he strove to banish it from his mind. He 
relied upon his new scenery and decorations, and upon 
Annie Brunei ; the former were safe, and he would take 
care to secure the latter. 

The gentlemen of the press had been good enough to mei .- 
tion the proposed revival in terms of generous anticipation. 


IN ENGLAND. 163 

Altogether, Mr. Melton had every reason to hope for the 
best. 

Occasionally he observed an unusual constraint in the 
manner of his chief favorite, and sometimes a listless in- 
difference to what was going on around her. Once or twice 
he had caught her standing idly behind the foot-lights, gazing 
into the empty theatre with a vague earnestness which revealed 
some inward purpose. He still trusted that all would go well ; 
and yet he confessed to himself that there was something 
about the young actress’s manner that he had never noticed 
before, and which he could not at all understand. 

Mrs. Christmas seemed to share with him this uneasy feel- 
ing. He knew that the old lady was now in the habit of 
lecturing her pupil in a derisive way, as if trying to banish 
some absurd notion from her mind ; and whenever he ap- 
proached, Mrs. Christmas became silent. 

For the first time during their long companionship Mrs. 
Christmas found her young friend incomprehensibly obsti- 
nate, not to Say intractable. Night and day she strove to 
convince her that in anticipating nervousness and failure she 
was rendering both inevitable ; and yet she could not, by all 
her arguments and entreaties, remove this gloomy apprehen- 
sion. 

“ I cannot explain the feeling,” was the constant reply. 
“ I only know it is there.” 

“ But you, of all people, Miss Annie ! Girls who have 
suddenly come to try the stage get fits of stage-fright nat- 
urally; but people who are born and bred to it, who have 
been on the stage since their childhood — ” 

“ Why should you vex yourself, mother ? I have no dread 
of stage-fright. I shall be as cool as I am now. Don’t ex- 
pect that I shall blunder in my part, or make mistakes other- 
wise — that is not what I mean. What I fear is, that the mo- 
ment I go upon the stage, and see the men and women all 
around me, I shall feel that I am just like one of them, only 
a little lower, in having to amuse them. I shall feel as if I 
ought to be ashamed of myself in imitating the real emotions 
of life.” 

“ You never had any of those fantastic notions before. 
Didn’t you use to pride yourself on your indifference to the 
people ? ” 

“ I used to.” 

“ What has changed you ? ” . . 

“ My growing older,” she replied, with a sad smile. “ I 
begin to feel as if those things that make up acting had be- 


164 


IN SILK A TTlkE. 


come part of my life now, and that I had no business to 
burlesque them any more on the stage. I begin to wonder 
what the people will think of my lending myself to a series 
of tricks.” 

And here she fell into a reverie, which Mrs. Christmas saw 
it was useless to interrupt. The worthy old woman was sorely 
puzzled and grieved by the apostasy of her most promising 
pupil, and ceased not to speculate on what subtle poison 
had been allowed to creep into her mind. 

Meanwhile the opening night had arrived. People had 
come back from the moors and Mount Blanc, and every 
place in the theatre had been taken. Mr. Melton already 
enjoyed his triumph by anticipation, and tried every means 
of keeping up Annie Brunei’s spirits. She was bound to 
achieve the most brilliant of all her successes, as he confi- 
dently told her. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

ROSALIND. 

Ah, mon bon petit public, be kind to my leetel child ! ” 
says Achille Talma Dufard, when his daughter is about to go 
on the stage for the first time. The words were in the heart, 
if not on the lips, of Mrs. Christmas, as the kindly old wo- 
man busied herself in Annie Brunei’s dressing-room and pre- 
pared her favorite for the coming crisis. She had a vague 
presentiment that it was to be a crisis, though she did not 
know why. 

By the time the inevitable farce was over, the house was 
full. Miss Featherstone, rushing down-stairs to change her 
costume of a bar-maid for that of Celia, brought word that 
all the critics were present, that royalty was expected, and 
that her own particular young gentleman had laughed so 
heartily at the farce, that she was sure he was in good humor 
and inclined to let by-gones be by-gones. 

“ So you must cheer up,” said Mrs. Christmas, blithely, 
when Nelly had gone ; “ you must cheer up, and do great 
things, my dear.” 

“ Am I not sufficiently cheerful. Lady Jane ? ” 

“ Cheerful ? Cheerful ? Yes, perhaps cheerful. But you 
must forget all you have been saying about the people, and 
mind only your character, and put fire and spirit into it. Make 


ROSALIND. 


r6s 

them forget who you are, my dear, and then you’ll only think 
of yourself as Rosalind. Isn’t your first cue ‘ Bo merry 7 ’ ” 

“Then I will be merry, mother, or any thing else you 
wish. So don’t vex your poor little head about me. I shall 
add a grey hair to it if you bother yourself so much. ” 

“You would find it hard to change it now, unless you 
changed it to black,” said Lady Jane. 

When Rosalind and Celia together appeared on the stage, 
a long and hearty welcome was given forth from every part 
of the house. Mr. Melton was standing in the wings with 
Mrs. Christmas, and his dry, gray face brightened up with 
pleasure. 

“ They have not forgotten her, have they ? ” he said, tri- 
umphantly. 

“ How could they .? ” was the natural response. 

From that moment the old woman’s eyes never left the 
form of her scholar during the progress of the play. Keenly 
and narrowly she watched the expression of her face, her 
manner of acting, the subtle harmony of word and gesture, 
which, in careful keeping, make the part of Rosalind an ar- 
tistic wonder. And the more narrowly she studied her 
pupil’s performance, the more she convinced herself that 
there was nothing to be found fault with. The timid pleas- 
antries, the tender sadness, the coy love advances, tempered 
and beautified by that unconscious halo of modesty and vir- 
gin grace which surrounds the gentlest of all Shakspeare’s 
heroines, were there before her eyes, and she was forced to 
say to herself that no Rosalind could be more charming than 
this Rosalind. She did not reflect that never before had she 
been constrained so to convince herself, and that never be- 
fore had she been so anxious to know the effect on the au- 
dience. 

That, so far as was yet appreciable, was satisfactory. The 
mere charm of admirable artistic acting, combined with a 
graceful figure and a pretty face, was enough to captivate 
any body of spectators. Mrs. Christmas, however, dared 
not confess to herself that they seemed to want that electric 
thrill of sympathy which had been wont to bring them and 
the young actress immediately en rapport. Once only did 
they, inthe first act, catch that swift contagion of delight 
which flashes through an audience bound by the master-spell 
of genius. It was where Rosalind, having graced the vic- 
torious wrestler with a chain from her own neck, is about to 
go away with Celia, and yet is loath to go without having 
had speech of the young man who has so awakened her in- 


JN SILK ATTIRE. 


terest. The half-interpreted longing, the hesittaing glance, 
and maiden bashfulness with which she turned to him and 
said ; 

“ Did you call, sir ? 

Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown 
More than your enemies,” 

— her eyes first seeking his face, and then being cast down, 
as the words became almost inaudible — provoked the house 
into a sudden tempest of applause which covered her disap- 
pearance from the scene. Mrs. Christmas caught her as she 
came off, and kissed her, with nervous tears in her eyes. 

At the end of the first act she was called before the cur- 
tain. Any one calmly observing the house would have seen 
that it was not very enthusiastic, and that it fell to talking 
almost before she had passed behind the curtain at the op- 
posite side. Then she went down to her dressing-room. 

Mrs. Christmas welcomed her and complimented her with 
an emphasis which was a little forced and unnecessary. 
Annie Brunei said nothing, but stood and contemplated, with 
her straight-looking, honest eyes, the poor little woman who 
was courageously trying to act her part naturally. Then she 
sat down. 

“ Do you think I did my best, mother t ” she said. And 
again she fixed her large eyes, with a kind conciliation in 
them, on her aged friend. 

“Of course — ” 

“ And you were watching me, I think ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And the house ? ” 

“ A little,” said Mrs. Christmas, rather nervously. 

“ Then you know,” she said, calmly, “ that I have made a 
total failure, that the people think so, and that to-morrow 
every one, including the papers, will say so.” 

“ My dear ! ’* 

“ Why should we not speak frankly, mother } I felt it 
within myself, and I saw it in their faces. And I knew it be- 
fore I went on the staged 

“ That is it ! That has done it all ! ” exclaimed the old 
woman, inclined to wring her hands in despair and grief. 

“ You convinced yourself that you were going to fail, and then 
when you went on the stage, you lost command over yourself.” 

“ Had I not command over myself ? ” the young girl asked, 
with a smile. “ I had so great command of myself that i knew 
and was conscious of everything I cfid— -the tiniest thing — 


ROSALIND. 


167 


and kept continually asking myself how it would impress the 
people. I was never in the least excited ; had I been — But 
there is no use talking, Lady Jane. Help me to change my 
dress ; I suppose I must go through with it.” 

So Mrs. Christmas officiated in place of Sarah, whom she 
always ordered out of the way on grand occasions ; and, as 
she did so, she still administered counsel and reproof, not 
having quite given up hope. 

Two of the most distinguished of the critics met in the 
lobby leading to the stalls. 

“ A pity, is it not ? ” said one. 

The other merely shrugged his shoulders. 

The general run of the critics fancied that Annie Brunei 
had added another to her list of brilliant successes, and were 
already shaping in their brain elaborate sentences overflow- 
ing with adjectives. 

Lord Weyminster, whom people considered to have a share 
in the proprietary of the theatre, went behind the scenes and 
met Mr. Melton. 

“ This won’t do, my boy,” he said. 

“ Do you think not ? ” said the manager, anxiously. They 
received her very warmly.” 

“Thev received Miss Brunei warmly, but not her Rosa- 
lind.” 

“ What’s to be done } ” 

“ Change the piece.” 

“ I can’t. Perhaps it was only a temporary indisposition.” 

“ Perhaps,” said his lordship, carelessly. “ I never saw 
such a difference in the acting of any woman. Formerly she 
was full of fire ; to-night she was wooden — pretty enough, 
and proper enough, but wooden.” 

Further consolation or advice Mr. Melton could not get 
out of his patron. In despair, he said that his lordship was 
exaggerating a temporary constraint on the part of the young 
actress, and that the succeeding scenes would bring her 
out in full force. 

The wood scene was, of course, charming. Miss Feather- 
stone’s young gentleman, sitting in the stalls, surrendered him- 
self to the delicious intoxication of the moment (Celia, it will 
be remembered, wears long petticoats), and wondered whether 
he could write a poem on the forest of Arden. He was in that 
fond period of existence when the odor of escaped gas, any- 
where, at once awoke for him visions of green-wood scenery 
and romantic love-affairs ; and when the perfume of cold 
cream conjured up the warm touch of a certain tender cheek 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


l68 

— for Miss Featherstone, when in a hurry to get home from 
the theatre, occasionally left her face unwashed. 

The people never lost interest in the play. Indeed, being 
Londoners, they were sufficiently glad to see any character 
played with careful artistic propriety, and it was only as an 
after-thought that they missed the old thrill of Annie Brunei’s 
acting. It could always be said of the part that it was grace- 
fully and tenderly done, void of coarse comedy and clap-trap 
effects. It struck a certain low and chastened key of sweet- 
ness and harmony that partially atoned for the absence of 
more daring and thrilling chords. 

And yet Annie Brunei went home sick at heart. The loss 
of popular favor did not trouble her ; for had not the people 
been remarkiibly kind, and even enthusiastic, in their final 
call } It was the certain consciousness that the old power 
had passed away from her forever — or, rather, that the inten- 
sity and emotional abandonment of her artistic nature had 
been sucked into her own personal nature, and was never- 
more to be separately exhibited as a beautiful and wonderful 
human product. 

“ Mother, I am tired of acting,” she said. “ It has been 
weighing upon me ever so long; but I thought I ought to 
give myself one more chance, and see if the presence of a 
big audience would not remove my sickness. No ; it has not. 
Everything I had anticipated occurred. I was not frightened ; 
but I knew that all the people were there, and that I could 
not command them. I was not Rosalind either to them or 
to myself ; and it was not Rosalind whom they applauded. 
The noise they made. seemed to me to have a tone of pity in 
it, as if they were trying to deceive me into thinking well of 
the part.” 

All this she said quietly and frankly ; and Mrs. Christmas 
sat stunned and silent. It seemed to the old woman that 
some terrible calamity had occurred. She could not follow 
the subtle sympathies and distinctions of which the young 
actress spoke : she knew only that something had happened 
to destroy the old familiar compact between them, and that 
the future was full of a gloomy uncertainty. 

“ I don’t know what to say, Miss Annie. You know best 
what your feelings are. I know there’s something wrong 
somewhere.” 

“ Don’t talk so mournfully,” said she. “ If I don’t act any 
more, we shall find something else to keep us out of starva- 
tion.” 

“ If you don’t act any more ! ” said the old woman, in a be- 


/IOM£ AGAIN. 


169 


wildered way ; “ If you don’t act any more ! Tell me, Miss 
Annie, what you mean. You’re not serious? You don’t 
mean that because your Rosalind mayn’t have gone off pretty 
well, you intend to give up the stage altogether — at your time 
of life — with your prospects ! My darling, tell me what you 
mean ? ” 

She went over and took her companion’s two hands in her 
own. 

“ Why, mother, you tremble as if you expected some terri- 
ble misfortune to happen to us. You will make me as ner- 
vous as yourself if you don’t collect yourself. You have not 
been prepared for it as I have been. I have known for some 
time that I should not be able to act when I returned to Lon- 
don — ” 

With a slight scream, she started up and caught her friend, 
who was tottering and like to fall in her arms. The old 
woman had been unable to receive this intelligence all at 
once. It was too appalling and too sudden ; and when at last 
some intimation of it came home to her mind, she reeled un- 
der the shock. She uttered some incoherent words — my 
charge of '‘'■your mother f the future '^’’ — and tliCn she 
sunk, quite insensible, upon the sofa to which Annie Brunei 
had half carried her. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

HOME AGAIN. 

Count Scohnstein was in love. His ponderous hilarity 
had quite gone out of him. After Miss Brunei’s departure, 
he moved about the house alone and disconsolate ; he was 
querulous about his meals ; he forgot to tell lies about the 
price of his wines. He ceased to joke about marriage ; he 
became wonderfully polite to the people about him, and, above 
all, to Will Anerley ; and every evening after dinner he was 
accustomed to sit and smoke silently in his chair, going over 
in his mind all the incidents of Annie Brunei’s visit, and 
hoping that nothing had occurred to offend her. 

Sometimes, in a fit of passionate longing, he wished he was 
again a tea-dealer and she the daughter of one of his clerks. 
He grew sick of his ambitious schemes ; inwardly cursed the 
aristocracy of this and every other country ; and prayed for 
some humble cottage, with Annie Brunei for his wife, and 


170 


IN SILK A TTIRE 


with nothing for himself to do but sit and smoke, and watch 
the grape clusters over the veranda. 

Twenty years before he had been afflicted by the same vis- 
ions. They did not alter much his course of life then ; nor 
did he permit them to move him much now — except after din- 
ner, when most people become generously impulsive and talk- 
ative. In one of these moods he confessed to Will the passion 
which had disturbed his repose. 

Will stared at him, for the mere thought of such a thing 
seemed to him a sort of sacrilege; but the next moment he 
asked himself what right >^<?had to resent the count’s affection 
for Annie Brunei as an insult, and then he was silent. 

“ Tell me, have I a chance ? ” said the count. 

“ How can I tell you .? ” he replied. 

“You were very friendly with her. You do not imagine 
there is anybody else in the young lady’s graces ? ” 

“ I don’t know of any one whom Miss Brunei is likely to 
marry ; but, as I say, how can I tell .? ” 

“ You imagine I have a fair field ? ” asked the count, rather 
timidly. 

“ Oh yes,” said Will, with a laugh, in which there was just 
a touchrof bitterness. “ But that is not the way you used to 
talk about women, and marriage, and so forth. Do you re- 
member how you gloated over the saying of that newspaper- 
man who was at the Juliet supper — about being ‘sewed up 
in a theological sack with a partner for life ? ’ I suppose you 
were only whistling in the dark, to scare the ghosts away, and 
now — ” 

There was no need to complete the sentence. The dole- 
ful look on the count’s rubicund face told its own tale. He 
shook his head rather sadly, and contemplatively stirred his 
Moselle with a bit of biscuit. 

“ It’s time a man like me was married. I have plenty of mon- 
ey to give my wife her own way ; we sha’n’t quarrel. There’s 
that big house standing empty ; you can’t expect people to 
come and visit you, if you’ve nobody to receive them. Look 
how perfectly Miss Brunei could do that. Look at the grace 
of her demeanor, and her courtesy, and all that : why, though 
she’s ever so little a thing, she looks like an empress when 
she comes into a room ! I never could get elsewhere such a 
wife as she would make.” 

“ Doubtless not ; but the point is to get her,” said Will, al- 
most defiantly. He did not know whether to laugh at or be 
indignant with the count’s cool assumption. 

“ I tell you I would marry her if she was nothing but what 


HOME AGAIN. 


171 


she is,” the count said, vehemently, and then he suddenly 
paused, with a look of frightened embarrassment on his face. 

“ How could she be anything else than what she is ? ” asked 
Will, carelessly : he had not observed the count’s trepidation. 

“ Oh — ^well — ah — if she were nothing more than an ordinary 
actress, without the manners of a lady, I should be inclined 
to marry her, on account of her — her sweetness of disposition, 
you know.” 

“ What magnanimity ! ” said Will. 

“ Laugh as you please,” said the count, with a touch of 
offended dignity, “ there are few men in my position who 
would marr}^ an actress. If I should marry Miss Brunei, I 
should consider that while she did me a favor I paid her quite 
as great a compliment. Look at the estimation in which act- 
resses are held. Look at those women of the theatre ; 

at Miss , and Miss , and Miss . Don’t the pub- 

lic know all about them ? And the public won’t stop to pick 
out one respectable actress from the lot, and be just to her. 
They all suffer for the sins of the majority ; and any actress, 
whatever may be her personal character, ought to know that 
she lies under the ban of social suspicion, and — ” 

“ Excuse my interrujDting you. But you needn’t seek to 
lower Miss Brunei in my opinion : I am not going to marry 
her. And I should advise you not to attempt to lower her in 
her own opinion, if you mean to remain friends with her. You 
can’t humble a woman into accepting you ; you may flatter 
her into accepting you. If a woman does not think she is 
conferring a favor in marrying you, she won’t at all — that is, 
if she is the sort of a woman any man would care to marry.” 

“ Leave that to me, my boy, leave that to me,” said the 
count, with a superb smile. “ I rather fancy, if flattery is to 
win the day, that I shall not be far behind.” 

“ And yet I heard you one evening say to Nelly Feather- 
stone that ‘ all pretty women were idiots.’ How could any 
woman help being offended by such a remark .? ” 

“Why, don’t you see, you greenhorn, that Nelly isn’t pret- 
ty—” 

“And you as good as told her so,” said Will. “Besides, 
Nelly, like every other woman, fancies she is pretty in a cer- 
tain way, and would rather that you had informed her of her 
idiocy than of her plainness.” 

The count blushed deeply. In making the remark to Miss 
Featherstone, he had imagined he was exhibiting a most 
remarkable and subtle knowledge of human weakness, and 
hoped to console her for the shape of her nose by sneering 


179 


IN SILK A TTIRR. 


at the stupidity of prettier women. But the count was a rich 
man, and a great favorite of Mr. Melton; and Nelly, being 
a prudent young woman, pocketed the affront. 

A variety of circumstances now transpired to hasten the 
return of both Will and the count to England. The for- 
mer could do scarcely anything to the business for which he 
had come, through his inability to use his right arm. There 
were, besides, certain growing symptoms of irritation in the 
wounds which he had fancied were slowly healing, which 
made him anxious to consult some experienced English sur- 
geon. Such were his ostensible reasons. 

Under these circumstances, what pleasure could the count 
have in remaining in Schonstein alone t He preferred to 
have Will’s company on the homeward journey ; and, besides, 
he was personally interested in learning whether the injuries 
his friend had suffered were likely to become more dangerous. 
Such were his ostensible reasons. 

But the crowning thought of both of them, as they turned 
their back upon Schonstein, was, “ I shall soon see Annie 
Brunei.” 

As they passed through the village, Margarethe Halm came 
out from under her father’s door, and the driver stopped the 
carriage. 

“You will see the young English lady when you return 
home ? ” said Crete to Will, with a blush on her pretty brown 
face. 

“ And if I do ? ” 

“ Will you give her this little parcel ? It is my work.” 

With that she slipped the parcel into his hand. At this 
moment Hans Halm came forward and bade both the gentle- 
men good-bye; and in that moment Crete, unnoticed, timidly 
handed up to Hermann, who was seated beside the driver, 
another little parcel. There was a slight quivering of the 
lips as she did so; and then she turned away, and went up to 
her own room, and threw herself, sobbing, on the bed in quite 
a passion of grief, not daring to look after the carriage as it 
rolled away into the forest. 

Hermann stealthily opened the packet, and found therein 
a little gilt Gebetbiich, with colored pictures of the saints 
throughout it, and a little inscription in front in Crete’s hand- 
writing. Franz Cersbach, having been over at Donau- 
eschingen, had secretly bought the tiny prayer-book for her ; 
and he knew all the time for whom it was intended. 

“ She i^ a good girl,” said Hermann, “ and a good girl 
makes a good wife. I will go once more to England, but 


HOME AGAIN. 173 

never after that — no, not if I had seven hundred counts for 
my master.” 

They stopped a day at Strasburg, and there they found a 
lot of English newspapers of recent date. 

“Look what the people are saying of Miss Brunei!” said 
Will, utterly confounded by the tone in which the journals 
spoke of Rosalind. 

The count took up paper after paper, and eagerly scanned 
such notices of the pieces as he could find. 

“They are not very enthusiastic,” said he ; “but they are 
really most complimentary — ” 

“Complimentary? Yes; but only to Miss Brunelf.not to 
Rosalind. Don’t you see in-every one of them how.Hie wTiter, 
wishing to speak as highly as possible of her, scarcely knows 
how to throw cold water on the play ? And yet cold w^ater is 
thrown abundantly. The unanimity of these critiques simply 
says this, that Miss Brunei’s Rosalind is a failure.” 

“ How will she bear it ? ” said the count. 

“She will bear it with the self-possession and sweetness 
that always cling to her.” 

For a moment he thought of an old simile of his : of her 
being like an Hiolian harp, which, struck harshly or softly, by 
the north wind or the gentle south, could only breathe har- 
mony in return. Would that fine perfection of composure 
still remain with her, now that her generous artistic aspirations 
seemed to have been crushed in some way ? He knew him- 
self — for the divine light of her face in certain moments had 
taught him — that there is no joy upon earth to be compared 
with the joy of artistic creation. He could imagine, then, 
that the greatest possible misery is that which results from 
strong desire and impotent facult}^ 

“ It is Rosalind that is wrong, not she,” he said. “ Or she 
may be suffering from some indisposition ; at any rate, they 
may spare their half-concealed compassion. Let her get a 
part to suit her — and then 1” 

He was not quite satisfied. How' was it that none of the 
critics — and some of them were men of the true critical, sen- 
sitive temperament, quick to discern the subtle personal rela- 
tions existing between an artist and his art — dwelt upon the 
point that the part was obviously unsuited to her ? Indeed, 
did not every one who had seen her in divers parts know that 
there were few’ parts which were so obviously suited to her? 

“ I know what it is!” said the count, “there aren’t 
enough people returned to town to fill the theatre, and she 
has been disheartened.” And he already had some recklessly 


174 


IN SILK A rriKE. 


extravagant idea of filling the house with “ paper ” at his own 
expense. 

“ But there you read that the theatre was crammed,” said 
Will. 

“ True,” said the count, gravely. “ I hope there’s nobody 
whom she has refused to see, or something like that, has been 
bribing all the papers out of spite ? ” 

“ They do that only in French plays,” said Will. “ I should 
think it more likely that the girl has been put out of sorts by 
some private affliction. We shall see when we get home.” 

Then he reflected with a bitter pang that now he was de- 
barred from ever approaching that too dear friend of his and 
asking about her welfare. Whatever she might be suffering, 
through private sorrow or public neglect, he could no longer 
go forward and offer a comforting hand and a comforting word. 
When he thought that this privilege was now monopolized by 
the big, well-meaning, blundering count, he was like to break 
his own resolve, and vow to go straight to her the moment 
his feet touched English soil. 

They crossed the Channel during the day. When they ar- 
rived in London, towards the evening. Will drove straight to 
his chambers, and the count went home.. 

“ You won’t go down to St. Mary-Kirby,” the latter had 
said, “ to see that charming little Dove ? What a devilish fine 
woman she’ll make ! You ought to consider yourself happy.” 

“ It is too late,” said Will, to go down to-night. Besides, 
they don’t expect me until to-morrow.” 

So he went to his lodgings ; and there, having changed his 
dress, he found himself with the evening before him. He 
walked round to his club, read one or two letters that awaited 
him, went up to the smoking-room and found’' not a human 
being in the place— nothing but empty easy-chairs, chess-board 
tables, dishevelled magazines, and a prevailing odor of stale 
cigars — and then he went out and proceeded in the direction 
of the theatre in which Annie Brunei was at that moment 
playing. That goal had been uppermost in his thoughts ever 
since he left Calais pier in the morning. 

The tall, pale, muscular man — and people noticed that he 
had his right arm in a sling — who now paid his four or five 
shillings, walked up-stairs, and slunk into the back seat of the 
dress-circle, was as nervous and as much afraid of being seen 
as a school-boy thieving fruit. Perhaps it was the dread of 
seeing, as much as the fear of being seen, that made his heart 
beat ; perhaps it was only expectation ; but he bethought him- 
self that in the twilight of the back seats of the circle his figure 


HOME AGAIN. 17 ^ 

woCild be too dusky to be recognized by one who had to look 
— if she looked at all — over the glare of the foot-lights. 

The act-drop was down when he entered — the orchestra 
playing the last instalment of Offenbach’s confectionery mu- 
sic. The whole house was in the act of regarding two young 
ladies, dressed as little as possible in white silk, with wonder- 
ful complexions, towers of golden hair on their heads, and 
on their faces an assumed unconsciousness of being stared 
at, who occupied a box by themselves. The elder of them 
had really beautiful features of an old French type — the fore- 
head low and narrow, the eyelids heavy, the eyes large, 
languid, melancholy, the nose thin and a little retroussee^ the 
mouth small, the lips thin and rather sad, the cheeks blanch- 
ed and a trifle sunken, the line of the chin and neck mag- 
nificent. The beautiful, sad woman sat and stared wistfully 
at the glare of the gas ; sometimes smiling, in a cold way, to 
her companion, a plump, commonplace beauty of a coarse 
English type, who had far too much white on her forehead 
and neck. Together, however, they seemed to make a suffi- 
ciently pretty picture to provoke that stolid British gaze which 
has something of the idiot, but more of the animal, in it. 

When the curtain rose again, the spectators found them- 
selves in Arden forest, with the duke and his lords before 
them ; and they listened to the talk of these actors as though 
they heard some creatures out of the other world converse. 
But from Will Anerley all the possibility of this generous 
delusion had fled. He shrunk back, lest some of the men 
might have recognized him, and might carry the intelligence 
of his presence to Annie Brunei. Perhaps the duke had just 
spoken to her ; perhaps she was then looking on the scene 
from the wings. It was no longer Arden forest to him. 
The perspective of the stream and of the avenues of the trees 
vanished, and he saw only a stained breadth of canvas that 
hid herixom his sight. Was she walking behind that screen ? 
Could the actors on the stage see her in one of the entran- 
ces ? And was it not a monstrous and inconceivable thing 
that these poor, wretched, unambitious, and not very clean- 
shaven men were breathing the same atmosphere with her, 
that they sometimes touched her dress in passing, that her- 
soft dark eyes regarded them ? 

You know that Rosalind comes into this forest of Arden 
weary, dispirited, almost broken-hearted, in company with the 
gentle Celia and the friendly Touchstone. As the moment 
;ipi)roached for her entrance, Anerley’s breath came and went 
ail the quicker. Was she not now just behind that board or 


176 


m SILK A TTIRE, 


screen ? What was the expression of her face ; and how^ad 
she borne up against the dull welcome that awaited her in 
England ? Pie thought he should see only Rosalind when 
she came upon the stage — that Annie Brunei might now be 
standing in the wings, but that Rosalind only would appear 
before him. 

He never saw Rosalind at all. He suddenly became con- 
scious that Annie Brunei — the intimate companion who had 
sat beside him in long rail way -jcurneys, who had taken break- 
fast with him, and played cards with him in the evening — 
had come out before all these people to amuse or interest 
them ; and that the coarse, and stupid, and vicious, and of- 
fensive faces that had been staring a few minutes ago at the 
two creatures in white silk were now staring in the same 
manner at her — at her who was his near friend. A wonder- 
ful new throb went through his heart at that thought — a throb 
that reddened his pale cheek. He saw no more of Rosalind, 
nor of Annie Brunei either. He watched only the people’s 
faces — watched them with eyes that had no pleasant light in 
them. Who were these people, that they dared to examine 
her critically, that they presumed to look on her with interest, 
that they had the unfathomable audacity to look at all ? He 
could not see the coster-mongers in the gallery ; but he saw 
the dress-coated publicans and grocers around him, and he 
regarded their stupidly delighted features with a savage scorn. 
This spasm of ungovernable hatred for the stolid, good-heart- 
ed, incomprehensible British tradesman was not the result of 
intellectual pride, but the consequence of a far more powerful 
passion. How many years was it since Harry Ormond had 
sat in his box, and glared with a bitter fury upon the people 
who dared to admire and applaud Annie Brunei’s mother ? 

In especial there were two men, occupying a box by them- 
selves, against whom he was particularly vengeful. As he 
afterward learned from Mr. Melton, they were the promoters 
of a company which sold the best port, sherry, champagne, 
hock, burgundy, and claret at a uniform rate of ten shillings 
a dozen ; and, in respect of their long advertisments, occasion- 
ally got a box for nothing through this or that newspaper. 
They were never known to drink their own wines, but they 
were partial to the gin of the refreshment-room ; and, after 
having drunk a sufficient quantity of that delicious and cool- 
ing beverage, they grew rather demonstrative. Your honest 
cad watches a play attentively; the histrionic cad assumes 
the part of those florid faced gentlemen — mostly officers — who 
come down to a theatre after dinner, and laugh and joke dur- 


HOME AGAIN, 


177 


ing the progress of the piece, with their backs turned on the 
performers. A gentleman who has little brains, much loquac- 
ity, and an extra bottle of claret, is bad enough ; but the half- 
tipsy cad who imitates him is immeasurably worse. The two 
men in question, wishing to be considered “d — d aristocratic,” 
talked so as to be heard across the theatre, ogled the women 
with their borrowed opera-glasses instead of looking at the 
play, and burst forth with laughter at th*e “ sentimental ” parts. 
It was altogether an inspiriting exhibition, which one never 
sees out of England. 

And the gentle Rosalind, too, was conscious that these men 
were looking at her. How could it be Arden forest to her — 
how could she be Rosalind at all — if she was aware of the 
presence of such people, if she feared their inattention, and 
shrunk from their laugh ? 

“ What the papers have said about her is right,” said Will 
to himself. “ Something must have happened to dispirit her 
or upset her, and she seems not to care much about the part.” 

The charm of her acting was there ; one could sit and watch 
with an extreme delight the artistic manipulation of those 
means which are obviously at the actor’s hand, but there was 
a subtle something wanting in the play. It w'as pretty and 
interesting while it lasted ; but one could have permitted it to 
drop at any moment without regret. 

There is, as everybody knows, a charming scene in the 
drama, in which Rosalind, disguised as a youth, coaxes 
Orlando to reveal all his love for her. There is in it every 
variety of coy bashfulness, and wayward fun, and half-sug- 
gested tenderness, which an author could conceive or the 
most accomplished actress desire to represent. When 
Orlando wishes she could convince this untoward page of his 
extreme love for Rosalind, the disguised Rosalind says mer- 
rily, “ Me believe it ! You may as soon make her that you love 
believe it ; which, I warrant, she is apter to do, than to con- 
fess she does : that is one of the points in the which women 
still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth,” 
she adds, suddenly changing her tone into tender, trustful 
entreaty, “are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, 
wherein Rosalind is so admired ?” And then again she asks, 
“But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak ? ’’ 

Rosalind turned the side of her face to her lover, as if her ear 
wished to drink in the sweet assurance ; and her eyes, which 
fronted the audience, stared vacantly before her, as if they too 
were only interested in listening; while a light, happy smile 
dawned upon her lips. Suddenly the eyes, vacantly gazing 


178 


IN SILK A rriRR. 


into , the deep theatre, seemed to start into a faint surprise, 
and a deadly pallor overspread her face. She tried to col- 
lect herself — Orlando had already answered : she stumbled, 
looked half wildly at him for a moment, and then burst into 
tears. The house was astonished, and then struck with a fit 
of admiration which expressed itself in rounds of applause. 
To them it was no hysterical climax to a long series of sad 
and solitary reveries, l^ut a transcendent piece of stage effect. 
It was the over-excited Rosalind who had just then burst 
into tears of joy on learning how much her lover loved her. 

Orlando was for the moment taken aback ; but the ap- 
plause of the people gave him time to recover himself, and 
he took her hand, and went on with the part as if nothing 
had happened. He and the people in the stage-boxes saw 
that her tears were real, and that she could scarcely continue 
the part for a sort of half hysterical sobbing ; but the majority 
of those in the theatre were convinced that Annie Brunei 
was the greatest actress they had ever seen, and wondered 
why the newspapers had spoken so coldly of her perform- 
ance. 

Will knew that she had seen him ; he had caught that 
swift, electric glance. But, not knowing any reason why the 
seeing him should produce such profound emotion, he, too, 
fancied that her bursting into tears was a novel and pretty 
piece of acting. However, for his own sake, he did not wish 
to sit longer there ; and so he rose and left. 

But the streets outside were so cold and dark, compared 
with Arden ! The chill night air, the gloomy shadows of the 
broad thoroughfare, the glare of gas-lamps on the pavement, 
and the chatter of cabmen, were altogether too great a 
change from Rosalind and the poetry-haunted forest. Nor 
could he bear the thought of leaving her there among those 
happy faces, in the warm and joyous atmosphere of romance, 
while he walked solitarily home to his solitary chambers. 
He craved for her society, and was content to share it -with 
hundreds of strangers. Merely to look upon her face was 
such a delight to him that he yielded himself to it, irrespec- 
tive of consequences. So he walked round to another en- 
trance, and stole into a corner of the pit. 

Was the delight or the torture greater ? fie was now 
within view of the rows of well-dressed men and women in 
the stalls, who seemed so pleased with Rosalind. It is one 
of the profound paradoxes of love, that, while making selfish 
men unselfish and generous to a degree, it begets in the 
most unselfish of men an unreasoning and brutal self-regard. 


JIOME AGAIN. 


179 


He hated them for their admiration. He hated them the 
more especially that their admiration was worth having. He 
hated them because their admiration was likely to please 
Annie Brunei. 

It might have been imagined that his anger would have 
been directed chiefly against those idiotic drapers’ assistants 
and clerks who sat and burlesqued the piece, and sneered at 
the actress. But no ; it was the admiration of the intelligent 
and accomplished part of the audience he feared : was it not 
sufficient to interpose between him and her a subtle barrier ? 
He could have wished that the whole theatre was hissing her, 
that so his homage and tenderness and respect might be ac- 
counted as of some worth. He fancied she was in love with 
the theatre, and he hated all those attractions of the theatre 
which caused her love with a profound and jealous hatred. 

At length the play came to an end, and there was no 
longer an excuse for his remaining, as Annie Brunei, of 
course, did not play in the short piece which followed. So 
he went outside, and in getting into the street he found him- 
self behind the two wine-merchants who had been in the box. 

“ Why not 1 ” said the one to the other, gayly. “ If she 
gets into a rage, so much the better fun. Rosalind must be 
d — d pretty in a fury.” 

“ All right,” said the other, with a hiccough. 

Will had heard the words distinctly ; and the mere sus- 
picion they suggested caused his blood to boil. When the 
two men turned into the narrow lane leading round to the 
stage-door of the theatre, he followed them with his mouth 
hard and firm, and his eyes not looking particularly amiable. 

At the entrance to the lane stood Miss Brunei’s cab. He 
recognized the face of the venerable jarvie who was accus- 
tomed to wait for her every evening. 

He passed up the lane ; the two men had paused in front 
of the small wooden door, and were trying to decipher, by 
the aid of the lamp overhead, the features of whomsoever 
passed in or out. 

“ S.he won’t be here for an hour,” said one of them. 

“ Shouldn’t wonder if she went home in Rosalind’s dress,” 
said the other, with another hiccough. 

“ She’ll ’it you, ’Arry, if you speak to her.” 

Let her ! I’d rather like it, ’pon my soul ! ” 

The stage-door was continually being swung to and fro by 
some one passing in or out, but as yet there was no sign of 
Annie Brunei. At length, however, some -of the people who 


IN SILK A TTIRS. 


t8o 

had been engaged in the play came out, and Will knew that 
she would soon follow. 

“ Was she likely to be alone ? Would they dare to speak to 
her ? ” He glanced down at the sling which supported his 
right arm. Deprive an Englishman of the use of his right 
arm, and he feels himself utterly helpless. There was one 
happy thought, however : even if she were alone she would 
be closely veiled ; and how were these half-tipsy cads to rec- 
ognize her .? 

She came out : she was alone, and veiled, but Will knew 
the graceful figure, and the carriage of the queenly head. 

By some demoniac inspiration the two men seemed also to 
take it for granted that the veiled face was that of Annie 
Brunei. The less tipsy of the two went forward, overtook her 
as she was going down the lane, and said to her, 

“ I beg your pardon**. Miss — Miss Brunei — ” 

She turned her head, and in the gas-light Anerley saw that 
there was a quick, frightened look of interrogation in her eyes. 
She turned away again, and had hurried on almost to the 
open street, when the man caught her arm with his hand. 

‘‘ Not so fast, my dear ! Won’t you look at my card ? ” 

“ Out of the way, idiot ! ” was the next thing she heard, in 
a voice that made her heart beat ; and in a moment the man 
had been sent reeling against the opposite wall. 

That was the work of an instant. Inflamed with rage and 
fury, he recovered himself, and was about to aim a blow at 
his assailant’s face, when Anerley’s left arm so successfully 
did duty without the aid of the wounded right one, that 
the man went down like a log, and lay there. His compan- 
ion, stupefied, neither stirred nor spoke. 

“ Get into the cab, Miss Brunei,” said Will, abruptly. 

He accompained her across the pavement ; an utter stran- 
ger could not have been more calm and cold. For a second 
she looked into his face, with pain and wonder and entreaty 
in her eyes ; and then she took his hand, which had been 
outstretched to bid her good-bye, and said : 

“ Won’t you come witli me ? I — I am afraid — ” 

He got into the cab ; the driver mounted his box and drove 
off ; and so it was that Will, scarcely knowing how it had 
come about, found himself sitting once more beside Annie 
Brunei, with her hand still closed upon his. 


A LAST WORD. 




CHAPTER XXIV. 

A LAST WORD. 

Every one knows Noel Paton’s “ Dante and Beatrice ” — 
the picture of the two lovers caught together in a supreme mo- 
ment of passion — their faces irradiated with the magical halo of 
a glowing twilight ; his, tender, entreating, wistful, worshipful ; 
hers, full of the unconscious sweetness and superb repose of 
a rare and exalted beauty. His eyes are up turned to hers, 
but hers dwell vaguely on the western glow of color. And 
there is in the picture more than one thing which suggests the 
strange dissociation and the sadness, as well as the intercom- 
munion and fellowship, of the closest love. 

Why, asks the impatient reader, should not a romance be 
always full of this glow, and color, and passion ? The warm 
light that touches the oval outline of a tender woman’s face 
is a beautiful thing, and even the sadness of love is beautiful • 
why should not a romance be full of these supreme elements 1 
Why should not the romancist cut out the long prose passages . 
of a man’s life, and give us only those wonderful moments in 
which being glows with a sort of transformation ? 

The obvious reason is, that a romance written in such an 
exalted key would be insufferably unreal and monotonous : 
even in the “ Venetianisches Gondellied,” full of pure melody 
as it is, one finds jarring chords, which are only introduced 
to heighten the keen delight of the harmony which is to 
fellow. Add to this the difficulty of setting down in words 
any tolerable representation of one of those passionate, joy- 
ous moments of love-delight which are the familiar theme of 
the musician and the painter. 

That momeat, however, in which Will Anerley met Annie 
Brunei’s eyes, and took her hand, and sat down beside her,’ 
was one of these. For many past days and weeks his life 
had been so unbearably dull, stagnant, prosaic, that the mere 
glad fact of this meeting drove from his mind all considera- 
tion of consequences. He looked in her eyes — the beautiful 
eyes that could not conceal their pleasure — and forgot every- 
thing else. For a time neither of them spoke — the delight 
of being near to each other was enough ; and when they began 
to recall themselves to the necessity of making some excuse to 
each other for having broken a solemn promise, they were 
driving along Piccadilly-; and, away down in the darkness, 


JN SILK A TTJRE. 


1S2 

they could see the luminous string of orange points that 
circle the Green Park. 

“I only returned to London to-day,” he said, and the; 
was a smile on his face, for he half pitied his own weakness ; 
“ and I could net help going to see you. That was how 1 
kept my promise. But you are not very angry ? ” 

No,” she said, looking down. 

There was no smile upon her face. The events of the last 
few weeks had been for her too tragic to admit of humorous 
lights. 

“ You ought not to have come,” she said the next minute, 
hurriedly. “ You ought to have stayed away. You yourself 
spoke of what might happen ; and the surprise and the pain 
of seeing you — I had no thought of your being there ; and I 
was sufficiently miserable at the time not to need any other 
thing to disturb me ; and now — and now you are here, and 
you and I are the friends we have been — ” 

The passionate earnestness of this speech, to say nothing 
of its words, surprised and astounded him ; why should she 
have reason to be disturbed } 

“ Why should we not be friends ? ” he said. 

She looked at him, with her big, tender, frank eyes, with a 
'strange expression. 

“You force me to speak. Because we cannot continue 
friends,” she said, in a voice which was almost harsh in its 
distinctness. “ After what you said to me, you have no right 
to see me. I cannot forget your warning ; and I know where 
you ought to be this evening — not here, but down in St. Mary- 
Kirby.” 

“ That is true enough,” said Will, gloomily. “ I couldn't 
have gone down to St. Mary- Kirby to-night ; but, as you say, 
I have no business to be near you— none whatever. I should 
not have gone to the theatre ; I ought to have stayed at home, 
and spent the time in thinking of you — why shouldn’t I say 
it, now that you have been so frank with me ? You and 1 
know each other pretty well, do we not ? There is no rea- 
son, surely, why we may not regard each other as friends, 
whatever may happen. And why should I not tell you that 
I fear to go down to St. Mary-Kirby, and meet that poor 
Dove who has given me her heart ? ” 

She said nothing : what could she say ? It was not for 
her to blame him. 

“ And when I went to the theatre, I said, ‘ It is the last 
time ! ’ I could not help going. I did not intend to meet 
you when you came out.” 


A LAST WORD, 


183 


“ You did not ? ” she said. 

There was, despite herself, a touch of disappointment in 
her tone. The strange, joyous light that had passed over 
her face on seeing him was the result of a sudden thought 
that he loved her so well that he was forced to come to her. 

No,” he answered, “ I did not intend to meet you ; but 
the sudden pleasure of seeing you was so great that I had 
not the heart to refuse to come into the cab. And, now you 
know my secret, you may blame me as you please. I suppose 
I am weaker than other men; but I did not err wilfully. 
And, now the thing is done, it is Dove whom I most consider. 
How can I go to her with a lie in every word, and look, and 
action ? Or how could I tell her the truth ? Whichever way 
one turns, there is nothing but sadness and misery.” 

And still there was no word from the young girl opposite. 

“ I have not even the resource of blaming destiny,” he 
continued. “ I must blame my own blindness. Only you, 
looking at these things in your friendly and kindly way, will 
not blame me further for having indulged myself a last time 
in going to see you to-night. You will never have to com- 
plain again — never ; and, indeed, I went to-night in a man- 
ner to bid you good-b3^e — so you won’t be hard on me — ” 

He was surprised to see, by the gleam of the lamp they 
passed, that the girl was covertly sobbing, and that the large 
soft eyes were full of tears. At the same moment, however, 
the cabman pulled up at the corner of the little square in 
which Annie Brunei lived, and so they both got out. When 
Will turned from paying the cabman, she had walked on a 
bit in advance, and had not entered the square. He over- 
took her, and offered her his arm. The night was fine and 
still ; a large lambent planet lay like a golden bell-flower in 
the soft purple before them, and a large harvest-moon, 
bronzed and discolored, glimmered through the tall elms on 
the other side of the way, as it slowly rose up from the hori- 
zon. 

“ 1 have something to say to you,” he heard the soft, low 
voice say, “ which I had hoped never to have said. It is 
better it should be said.” 

“ If you have cause to blame me, or if you wish to prevent 
my seeing you again, by upbraiding me for having spoken 
honestly to you, I beg of you to say nothing that way. It is 
not needed. You will run no danger whatever of being an- 
noyed again. I blame myself more than you can ; and since 
we must part, let us part friends, with a kindly recollection of 
each other.” 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


1^4 

“ Don't speak like that ! " she said, imploringly, with an- 
other convulsive sob, “ or you will break my heart. It is 
not enough that-— that— oh ! I cannot, cannot tell you, and 
yet I must tell you ! ” 

“ What have you to tell me ? ” he said, with a cold feeling 
creeping over him. He began to suspect what her emotion 
meant ; and he shrunk from the suggestion, as from some 
great evil he had himself committed. 

“ You will think me shameless ; I cannot help it. You 
say this is our last meeting ; and I cannot bear to have you 
go away from me with the thought that you have to suffer 
alone. You think I ought to give you my sympathy, because 
I am your friend, and you wall not be happy. But — but I 
w'ill suffer too ; and I am a woman — and alone — and whom 
have I to look to — 1 ” 

He stopped her, and looked down into her face. 

“ Annie, is this true ? ” he said, sadly and gravely. 

He got no answer .beyond the sight of her streaming eyes 
and quivering lips. 

“ Then are we the two wretchedest of God’s creatures,” he 
said. 

“ Ah, don’t say that,” she murmured, venturing to look up 
at him through her tears. “ Should we not be glad to know 
that we can think kindly of each other, without shame ? 
Unhappy, yesl — but surely not the very wretchedest of all. 
And you won’t misunderstand me? You won’t think, after- 
ward, that it was because 1 was an actress that I confessed 
this to you ? ” 

Even in such a moment a touch of Bohemianism ! — a fear 
that her mother’s profession should suffer by her weakness. 

“ Dearest ! ” he said, tenderly — “ for you are, God help 
me ! my ver}-, very dearest — we now know each other too well 
to have to nvake excuses for our confidence in each other.” 

They walked on now quite silently; there was too much 
for both of them to think about to admit of speech. As they 
walked southward, down the long and sombre thoroughfares, 
the large moon on their left slowly rose, and still rose, at 
every minute losing its ruddy hues, and gaining in clear, full 
light. They knew not whither they w'ere going. There was 
no passer-by to stare at them ; they were alone in the world, 
wdth the solitary houses, and the great moon. 

“ You have not told me a minute too soon^” he said, sud- 
denly, with a strange exultation in his tone. 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ You and I, Annie, love each other. If the future is to be 


A LAST WORD. 


taken from us, let us recompense ourselves now. When you 
walk back to your house to-night, and the door closes, you and 
I see each other no more. I'o-morrow, and all the to-morrows 
after that, we are only strangers. But for the next half-hour 
— my dearest, my dearest ! show me your face, and let me 
see what your eyes say! — why should we not forget all these 
coming days, and live that half-hour for ourselves t It is 
but a little time ; the sweetness of it will be a memory to us. 
Let us be lovers, Annie ! — only for this little time we shall 
be together, my dearest ! Let us try to imagine that you and 
I are to be married to-morrow — that all the coming years we 
are to be together — that now we have nothing to do but to 
yield ourselves up to our love — ” 

“ I am afraid,” she said, in a low voice, trembling. 

“Why afraid, then?” 

“ That afterward the recollection will be too bitter.” 

“ Darling, nothing that you can imagine is likely to be 
more bitter than what you and I must bear. Just now, we 
have a little time our own ; let us forget what is to come 
and—” 

“Whisper, then,” she said. 

He bent clown his head to her, and she came close to his 
ear : 

“ Will^ I love y on ^ and if I could I would be your wife to-mor- 
row I ” 

“And you will kiss me, too,” he said. 

He felt a slight warm touch on his lips ; and when he 
raised his head his face was quite white, and his eyes were 
wild. 

“ Why, we are to be married to-morrow 1 ” he said. “ It 
will be about eleven when I reach the church, and I shall 
walk up and down between the empty pews until you come. 

I see the whole thihg now — you walking in at the door with 
your friends, your dear eyes a little frightened, looking at me 
as if you wanted me to take you away at once from among 
the people. Then we shall be off, dearest, sharp and fast, up 
to your house ; you will hurry to change your things, and 
then, with a good-bye to everybody, we are off — we two, you 
and I, Annie, away anywhere, so that we may be alone to- 
gether. And I wish to God, Annie, that you and I were lying 
down there beneath that water, dead and drowned ! ” 

They had come to the river — the broad, smooth river, with 
the wonderful breadths of soft light upon it, and the dark 
olive-green shadows of the sombre wharves and buildings on 
the other side. 


i86 


JN SILK A TTIRE. 


“ Will, Will, you frighten me so ! ” she said, clinging to his 
arm. 

“You needn’t be frightened,” he said, sadly. “ I am only 
telling you what might happen. Can’t you see all these things 
when you try to see them ? For many a night past — ever 
since the evening we spent overlooking the Rhine — I have 
seen that marriage-scene before my eyes, and it is always you 
who are there. You remember that evening when you sat up 
in the balcony, among the vine-leaves, with the moon hanging 
up over the river ? There’s a German song I once heard 
that warns you never to go near the Rhine, because life is too 
sweet there ; and w'e have been there, and have received the 
curse of this discontent and undying regret.” 

Then he broke out into a bitter laugh. 

“We were to be lovers ; and this is pretty lovers’ talk.” 

“You really do frighten me. Will,” she said. “ I never saw 
you look so before. Oh, my dear, don’t be so very, very sad 
and despairing, for I have nothing to comfort you with — not 
even one poor word ; and it seems so wretched that we two 
should not be able to comfort each other.” 

He was fighting with the bonds of circumstance, and his 
impotence embittered him. The spectacle of these two 
wretched creatures — despairing, rebellious, and driven almost 
beyond the bonds of reason by their perplexity — walking 
along the side of the still and peaceful stream, was one to have 
awakened the compassion, or at least the sympathetic merri- 
ment, of the most careless of the gods. What a beautiful 
night it was ! The deep olive shadows of the moonlight hid 
away the ragged and tawdry buildings that overhung the river ; 
and the flood of yellow-tinged light touched only here and 
there on the edge of a bank or the stem of a tree, and then 
fell gently on the broad bosom of the stream. The gas-lamps 
of the nearest bridge glimmered palely* in that white light; 
but deep in the shadows along the river the lamps burned 
strong and red, and sent long quivering lines of fire down into 
the dark water beneath. Farther up the stream lay broad 
swathes of moonlight, vague and indeterminate as the gray 
continents visible in the world of silver overhead. In all 
this universe of peace and quiet and harmony there seemed 
to be only these two beings, restless, embittered, and hope- 
less. 

“ Let us go home,’* he said, with an effort. “ I can do 
nothing but frighten you, and myself too. I tell you there 
are other things pass before my eyes as well as the marriage 
scene, and I don’t want U) see any more of them. It will be 


EVIL TIDINGS. 


187 


time enough to think of what may happen when it does hap- 
pen.” 

“ And whatever happens, Will, shall we not at least know 
that we sometimes — occasionally — think tenderly of each 
other ? ” 

“ So you wish us to be lovers still ! ” he said. The delusion 
is too difficult to keep up. Have you reflected that when 
once I am married, neither of us may think of each other at 
all?” 

“Will ! Will ! don’t talk like that ! You speak as if some- 
body had cruelly imjured you, and you were angry and re- 
vengeful. Nobody has done it. It is only our misfortune. 
It cannot be helped. If I am not to think of you — and I 
shall pray God to help me to forget you — so much the better.” 

“ My poor darling ! ” he said, “ I am so selfish that I 
think less of what your future may be than of my own. You 
dare not confide your secret to any one ; and I, who know it, 
must not see you nor try to comfort you. Is not the very 
confidence that prompted you to tell me a proof that we are — 
that we might have been happy as husband and wife ? ” 

“ Husband and wife,” she repeated, musingly, as they once 
more drew near home. “You will be a husband, but I shall 
never be a wife.” 

“ And yet, so long as you and I live,” he said, quite calmly, 
“ you will have my whole love. It cannot be otherwise : we 
need not seek to conceal it. Whatever happens, and wherever 
we may be, my love goes with you.” 

“And if mine,” she whispered, “could go with you, and 
watch over you, and teach your heart to do right, it would 
lead your love back to the poor girl whom you are going to 
marry, and make her happy.” 

At parting he kissed her tenderly, almost solemnly. Then 
she quickly undid from her neck a little brooch, and put it in 
his hand with these words : 

“ Give that to her, with my love, and with yours.^^ 


CHAPTER XXV. 

EVIL TIDINGS, 

Very early did Dove get up, that cool September morning. 
Away down the valley there lay a faintly yellow haze, which 
made one feel that the sun was behind it, and would soon 


i88 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


drink it up. In the mean time the grass was wet. A birch- 
tree that almost touched her bedroom window had its droop- 
ing branches of shivering leaves glistening with moisture. 
The willows along the river-side were almost hidden. The 
withered and red chestnut-leaves which floated on the pond 
had a cold, autumn look about them. Then old Thwaites, 
the keeper, appeared, with a pointer and a curly black retriev- 
er; and when the old man went in to the meadow, to knock 
down some walnuts from the trees, his breath was visible in 
the damp, thick atmosphere. She saw these things vaguely ; 
she only knew with certainty that the sunlight and Will were 
coming. 

A hundred times she made up her mind as to the mood in 
which she ought to receive him. Indeed, for weeks back she 
had done nothing but mentally rehearse that meeting ; and 
every scene that she described to herself was immediately 
afterward abandoned. 

She was hurt, she knew ; and in her secret heart she longed 
to — No ! he had been very neglectful about letters, and 
she would — But in the mean time it was important, what- 
ever role she might assume, that she should look as pretty as 
possible. 

This was all her immediate care — a care that had awoke 
her an hour too soon. But if she had changed her mind 
about the manner in which she should receive him, how much 
more about the costume which was to add effect to the scene ! 
Every detail — every little ornament, and bit of ribbon, and 
dexterous fold — she studied and altered, and studied and al- 
tered again, until she was very nearly losing temper, and 
wishing that people had been born to look their best without 
the necessity of clothing themselves. 

Perhaps one might be allowed to make a remark about 
those ladies who, dressing for a ball or the theatre, imagine 
that the less they clothe themselves the better they look. It 
is merely a question of the relative artistic value of certain 
surfaces. And, as a general rule, it may be accepted that 
the natural complexion of women’s shoulders is inferior in 
fineness of hue and texture to the same extent of white satin 
or dove-colored silk. 

Down-stairs she went. Mr. Anerley was engaged in turn- 
ing in the edge of his cartridges, and had succeeded in vigor- 
ously scratching the marble mantel-piece with the machine 
he was using. 

“ Good-morning, papa.” 

She was very much embarrassed, she did not know why. 


EVIL TIDINGS. 189 

She hoped he would not look at her ; but he did, and kissed 
her, and returned to his work. 

“ Dear me ! ” he said, “ that I, an old man, should have 
„ received such a compliment ! A young lady getting up at a 
prodigiously early hour, and dressing herself in her very 
smartest way, in order to come down and make my break- 
fast ! ” 

‘‘ Shall I pour out your coffee now, papa ? ” she said, with 
a great blush. 

“ Yes, you may, my dear. But don’t put anchovy into it 
instead of cream. I make the suggestion because I see you 
are a little disturbed. It is the early rising ; or the chill of 
the autumn ; or the remembrance of last Sunday’s sermon, I 
dare say.’ ’ 

She did not speak a word, but placed the coffee at his end 
of the table, and returned to her seat. When he had finished 
his cartridge-making, he sat down, and, as a preliminary to 
breakfast, swallowed a mouthful of the coffee. The next 
moment there was an exclamation of horror — he ran to the 
sideboard, seized a bottle of hock that had been left from 
yesterday’s dinner, hurriedly filled a coffee-cup with the wine, 
and drank off the contents — his face all the while in contor- 
tions. Dove sat silent and wilful, with a smile on her lips 
and a hot flush on her cheeks. She would neither look at 
him nor speak to him. 

“ Cayenne pepper ! ” he gasped, taking another gulp of the 
cold Rhine wine. 

She only played with her tea-spoon. 

“ You might have killed me, you malicious creature ! ” 
he cried, amidst intervals of coughing. “ Cayenne ! Well, 
don’t suppose that you would have got much out of my life- 
insurance ! ” 

At this she rose and walked to the door — proud, spiteful, 
half laughing, and half crying. 

“ You had no business to tease me,” she said. 

“ Come here. Dove,” he said, taking her by the arm and 
leading her back ; “ do you know what the effect of cayenne 
is on the human throat ! ” 

“ I don’t care.” 

“ I say you might have killed me.” 

“ I don’t care.” 

“ Now, if I were a young man, I should probably be proud 
of such a mark of your favor, but — ” 

“ It served vou risfht. I can’t bear people to talk to me 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


iQO 

“ But, as I am an old man, I mean to have my revenge. 
Firstly, there shall be no dog-cart or other vehicle leave this 
house this day for Horton Station. Secondly, should any 
guest arrive, he will be asked to follow me over to the East 
Meadows, where I shall be shooting. Thirdly, should that 
guest dine with us, he will be confined to the dining-room 
during the entire evening, and any persons waiting in the 
drawing-room may play ‘The Coulin,’ or such music as they 
prefer, for their own benefit. Fourthly — ” 

“ Fourthly, none of these things will happen,^' said Dove, 
with a touch of contempt in her tone. 

And Dove was right. For she herself was driven in the 
dog-cart over to Horton Station, and she took care to make 
the man start half an hour before the proper time. The 
station-master, then and now one of the civilest of men, en- 
deavored to relieve the tedium of waiting by chatting to her ; 
but she only half listened to him, and talked nonsense in 
reply. 

She walked about the station, stared up the long perspec- 
tive of n arrowing lines, then walked in again to the small 
waiting-room, and wondered why the people about did not be- 
stir themselves to receive the coming train. Then, with a flut- 
ter of the heart, she saw the signals changed, and presently 
there was a far-off noise which told of Will’s approach ; 
for he had written from Paris to say that, unless they got 
other notice from him, he would be down by this particular 
train. 

A railway-station is not the proper place for a piece of 
acting. Scenes of the most tender and tragic kind — never 
to be forgotten — have been witnessed there ; but the gentle 
drawing-room comedies with which lovers amuse themselves 
do not harmonize with the rough-and-ready accessories of a 
railway line. Dove resolved to leave her proper reception of 
Will until they should be in the house together; at present 
it was to be nothing but a hurried, delicious kissing, scram- 
bling after luggage, and swift getting home. 

There was no head thrust out from one of the approaching 
carriages — no handkerchief waved. She did not know which 
of the dull dark, and heavy carriages might not have him in 
side ; but she was sure he could not escape her at the station. 

The train stopped, the guard bustled about, the people 
descended from the carriages, the porters looked out for 
onH civnpnces. With.a.half-realiz fear — a dre/d 


EVIL TIDINGS. 


IQI 

The doors were again shut, the guard blew his whistle and 
leisurely stepped into his box, and the train moved slowly 
out of the station. There was no Will Anerley there. 

Sick at heart, she turned away. It was a cruel disappoint- 
ment. For weeks she had been planning the whole scene ; 
she had dreamed of the' meeting, had thought of it during 
the drowsy hush ofi the Sunday-morning sermon, had looked 
forward to it as the crowning compensation for the micro- 
scopic troubles of her daily life. There was not even a 
letter to say that he was in England ; perhaps he was still 
in France. 

So she went home, vexed, and disappointed, and sad. 
Mr. Anerley was out shooting ; Mrs, Anerley soothingly said 
that' doubtless Will would . be down by a later train ; and 
then Dove v/ent away into a corner of the drawing-room, 
and plunged herself into a volume of old music, turning over 
the leaves and supping a surfeit of sad memories. 

Before going to the train that morning. Will had found it 
necessary, to call upon a doctor. From him he learned, 
firstly, that the original dressing of the wounds in his arm 
had been far from satisfactory ; and, secondly, that owing to 
some disturbant cause renewed inflammation had set in. 
Indeed, the doctor gave him to understand that only prompt 
attention and great care could prevent the wounds assuming a 
very serious aspect. 

“ Your arm must have suffered some violence quite re- 
cently,” said the doctor. 

“ Well, last night,” said Will, “ I knocked a man down 
with my left arm, and very likely I instinctly twitched up the 
right to guard rhyself.” 

“These are little amusements which a man in your con- 
dition had better forego,” said the other, quietly. “ The be' 
thing you can do is, go home and get to bed, give your 
perfect rest, and I will call in the afternoon and see w^ 
to be done.” 

“I can^t do that,” said Will, “ Fm going dr ' 
country.” 

“ You will do so at your peril.” 

“All the same, I must go. Nothing is 
between to-day and Monday. If you h'' 
in Turkey ! — without any doctor but a 
sven infuse our tea — constant rain — v 
tent letting in water at night — ” 

“ I don’t know about your leg in " 

• “ but I see the condition in 


192 


IN SILK ATTIRE, 


you think it will get well by exposing it to rain, well and 
good — ” 

“ Can you do anything to it now 7 ” 

“ No, unless you give the limb perfect rest.” 

“ Very well. If it gets very bad, I shall come up to town 
to-morrow. If not, I shall visit you on Monday, and do 
everything you tell me then.” 

He got into a cab and drove back to his chambers. The 
man had already taken his portmanteau down-stairs, when 
Count Schonstein’s brougham drove up, and the count 
jumped out. 

“ Where are you going ? ” 

“ To Sf. Mary-Kirby.” 

“ Not now. Come inside ; I have something to tell you.” 

They stepped inside ; never before had Will observed the 
count to be so disturbed, 

“ Miall & Welling,” he said, hurriedly, “I have just heard 
— not ten minutes ago — have collapsed : the announcement 
will be made to-day : the directors were in the place till 
twelve last night. It will be the most fearful crash, they say ; 
for the bank has lately been making the wildest efforts to 
save itself.” 

“ I thought Miall & Welling’s was as safe as the Bank of 
England,” said Will, just a trifle pale. 

Every farthing of his father’s money was in this bank, 
which had never even been suspected in the most general 
crises. 

“ It may be only a rumor,” continued the count. “ But 
you may as well wait, to see if the evening papers have any- 
thing about it.” 

“It will be a pretty story to carry down with me to Kent ! ” 
said Will. 

“ That’s what I was thinking of,” said the count, kindly — 

teed, he was not wholly a selfish man ; “and I thought I 
go down with you, if you liked, and try to help your 
'^ver the first shock. It will be a terrible blow to 
an who has lived a quiet and easy life, with a little 
’ shooting, and so on. I shouldn’t wonder if it 
'dm and did some harm — ” 

"^w my father,” said Will. 

vait for the evening papers. By twelve 
current in the City. Miall & Welling 
rcular ; the bank had suspended pay- 

Will’s missing the train. When he 


EVIL TIDINGS. 


193 


took his seat in the next train going down, it was with a 
feeling that now ill-fortune had done its worst, and there was 
nothing more to encounter. He thought of that wild scene 
of last night by the banks of the river — of the strange, sad 
unfathomable look of the young actress’s eyes — of their 
bitter parting, and the tender words she spoke as he left. 
Then he looked forward to meeting Dove with a cold fear at 
his heart ; and he was almost glad that the more immediate 
and terrible business he had on hand would distract his 
attention. 

He left his portmanteau at the station, and walked round 
to the brow of the hill. Before him lay the well-known val- 
ley, still and silent under the yellow autumn sunlight ; and 
down there by the river he saw a tall spare man, accompa- 
nied by another man and a couple of dogs, whose figure he 
easily recognised. He walked in that direction, crossing the 
low-lying meadows and the river, and rounding a bit of cop- 
pice which skirted a turnip-field. 

As he turned the corner, a covey of birds rose just in front 
of him, with a prodigious whir of wings. 

“ Mark ! ” he called, instinctively, though he was quite un- 
aware of the proximity of anybody with a gun. 

The next second there was a double report; two of the 
birds came tumbling down, scattering their feathers in the 
air, and there was a muttered admonition to the pointer. A 
few steps farther brought him into view of Mr. Anerley and 
old Thwaites, both of whom were marking down the remain- 
ing birds of the covey, as the low, swift, sailing flight seemed 
to near the ground. 

‘‘ Why did you come round that way ? ” said Mr. Anerley, 
when he saw his son. “ I might have shot you.” 

“ I shouldn’t have minded, sir,” said Will. “ I’m getting 
used to it.” 

“ You have your arm in a sling yet t I thought it was all 
right.” 

“ The doctor pulls long faces over it. I fancy the man in 
the Black Forest bungled it.” 

“ If the Black-Foresters don’t know how to cure men shot 
by mistake, they ought to,” said Mr. Anerley, with a thor- 
oughly English contempt for any kind of shooting but his 
own. “ Such a set of sparroWshooting shoemakers I never 
saw. I suppose I needn’t o^r you my gun .? ” 

“ No, thank you. I’ll w^k down the turnips with you, on 
my way to the house.” 

There was little left in the turnips, however. A solitary 


194 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


bird got up, almost out of shot, and Mr. Anerley knocked 
him over very cleverly. There was no smile of triumph, 
however, on the firm-set lips of the tall, keen-faced, gray- 
haired sportsman. He quietly put another cartridge into the 
barrel and walked on, occasionally growling at the dog, which 
was Continually making false points. Almost at the end of 
the turnips the dog made a very decided point. 

“ Ware lark ! gr-r-r-r ! ” cried old Thwaites ; and at the 
same instant, a fine covey of birds, startled by- the cry, got up 
out of shot. The dog had really been on the scent of the 
partridges. 

Mr. Anerley said nothing, but he did not look particularly 
pleased. 

“ If that had not been old Thwaites,'^ muttered Will, “ I 
should have said it was an old fool.” 

So Will walked on to Chestnut Bank. He had not the 
heart to tear the old man away from his favorite sport in order 
to give him this bad news. After dinner, he now thought, 
would be time enough ; and he himself seemed to have gained 
a respite until then. 

But if he was in the mean while relieved from the necessity 
of bearing the evil tidings to his father, there remained his 
meeting with Dove, which he had for long looked forward to 
with a half-conscious fear. As he drew near the house, he 
began to think this the greater trial of the two. 

Dove, still sitting in the drawing-room, heard footsteps on 
the gravelled pathway leading down through the garden. 
The music almost dropped from her hands as she listened 
intently for a moment — then a flush of joyous color stole over 
her face. But, all the same, she opened the book again, and 
sat obstinately looking at pages which she did not, see. 

“ Dove,” said Will, tapping at the French window, “ open 
and let me in.” 

No answer — Dove still intently regarding the music. 

So he had to go to the hall-door, ring the bell and enter the 
drawing-room from the passage. 

“ Oh, you are come back ! ” said Dove, with mimic sur- 
prise, and with admirably simulated carelessness. 

She held out her hand to. him. She fan'cied he would be 
dreadfully astonished and perturbed by this cold reception — 
that they would have a nice little quarrel, and an explanation, 
and all the divine joys of making-up, before Mrs. Anerley ' 
could come down from the apple-closet, in which she had been 
engaged since breakfast-time. But, on the contrary. Will was ■ 


EVIL TIDINGS. 


195 


neither surprised nor disturbed. He looked quite grave, per- 
haps a little sad, and took her hand, saying kindly, 

“Yes, back again. I hope you have been well while I 
was away. Dove ; and that you amused yourself.” 

Dove was alarmed ; he had not even offered to kiss her. 

“ What is the matter with you. Will ? ” she said, with a 
vague fear in her pretty violet eyes. 

“ Why, nothing much.” 

“ Is it I, then ? Are you vexed with me, that you should 
be so cold with me after being away so long a time ? ” 

There she stood, with her eyes downcast, a troubled look 
on her face, and both her hands pulling to pieces a little en- 
graving she held. 

“ Why should I be vexed with you, Dove ^ ” he said, put- 
ting his hand on her shoulder. He dared not kiss her : there 
dwelt on his lips yet the memory of that sad leave-taking of 
the night before. 

“ Then why are you and I standing here like strangers ? ” 
she said, stamping her little foot. 

She could not tell how things had all gone wrong; but 
they had gone wrong ; and the meeting she had looked for- 
ward to with such pleasurable anticipation was an embarrass- 
ing failure. 

At that moment Mrs. Anerley entered, and the girl saw 
her receive the kiss which had been denied to herself. 

“ You are not looking well. Will,’’ said the observant 
mother. “ Is your arm healing rightly } ” 

“ Oh yes, well enough.” 

“ You are fatigued, then. Let me bring you some sherry.” 

She left the room, and then Dove — looking hesitatingly 
for a moment — ran forward to him, and buried her face in 
his bosom and burst into tears. 

“ It was all my fault, dear,” she sobbed. “ I wanted to be 
angry with you, for not coming down by the first train — 
and — and I "thought you would pet me, and make it up, you 
know ; and I even forgot to ask about your arm ; but it 
wasn’t, dear, because I didn’t think of it.” 

“ There, it’s all right,” he said. “I didn’t notice you 
were vexed with me, or I should have made friends with you 
at once. There, now% you’re only ruffling all your pretty 
hair, and such a delicate little collar you’ve got ! ” 

“ Oh ! ” she said, with smiles breaking through her tears, 

“ you don’t know what I have been making for you.” 

“ Tell me.” 

“ Twenty times I was near telling you in my letters ; but 


196 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


I Stopped. I tried to get it done, to give it you to-day, but 
I couldn’t ; and — and perhaps it was that made me vexed 
with you.” 

“ Very likely,” said Will, who thoroughly understood the 
charming by-ways of Dove’s logic. 

“ It is a worsted waistcoat,” she said, in a solemn whisper, 
“ all knitted by myself. And I’ve put in some of my hair, 
so that you never could see it unless I showed it to you. 
They say that to give any one some of your hair is so unlucky 
— that it always means parting ; but I couldn’t help putting 
in just a little.” 

“ To represent a little parting — from Saturday to Monday, 
for example.” 

“ Are you going up to town again to-morrow ? ” she said, 
with fresh alarm. 

“ The doctor says I ought ; but we shall see when to- 
morrow' comes.” 

So peace was established between them. It was only as 
an after-thought she remembered that he had never once 
kissed her. 

During dinner Will was almost silent. They supposed he 
was tired with the journey home. When Mrs. Anerley and 
Dove had left the room, he knew the time was come. 

“ I have bad news for you, father,” he said. 

“ Out with it, then,” said Mr. Anerley. “ Everybody in 
the house is well in health ; anything else does not much 
matter.” 

“ Miall & Welling are down.” 

The old man put back his wineglass on the table. 

“ Miall & Welling’s bank is down ? ” he said, slowly. 

“Yes.” 

“ Are you sure of it ? ” 

“ There is their circular.” 

He read the paper carefully, and laid it down. 

“ They say,” said Will, “ that their affairs are in a terrible 
plight — quite hopeless.” 

“ That means that I have not a farthing of money beyond 
what is in the house.” 

He remained silent for several minutes, his eyes fixed on 
the table before him. Then he said, 

“ Very \^ell. There are four of us. If we two men can- 
not support ourselves and these two women, should not every 
one have a right to laugh at us ? ” 

“ But that you, at your age — ” 

“ My age ? I am in the prime of life. Indeed, it is time 


EVIL TIDINGS. 


597 


I did something, to show that I could have earned my own 
bread all along.” 

“ I’m glad you look at it in that way,” said Will, rather 
sadly. “ Here am I, unable to earn a penny until my 
arm gets better. You know nothing especially of any busi- 
ness — ” 

“ It is not too late to learn, my lad. There are plenty of 
things to which I could turn my hand. Imagine what a cap- 
ital keeper I should be ; and how I should overawe the tremb- 
ling Cockneys invited down to a grand battue into giving me 
monstrous tips ! Now let us look at the thing in another 
light.” 

He straightened himself up, as if throwing some weight 
off his shoulders. Then he relapsed into his old manner, and 
there was a sort of sad smile on his face. 

Edmond About,” he said, “ declares that all men are 
producers, and have therefore a right to the property they 
possess, except robbers, beggars, and gamblers. Doubtless 
the money I possessed was very valuable to the people to 
whom I lent it, and they paid me for putting its working 
powers at their disposal. You understand ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I was, in that sense, a producer, and had a right to the 
money on which I lived. M. About tells me that I had. But, 
in spite of that, I was always bothered by an uneasy convic- 
tion that the ancestor of mine who brought the money into 
the family could not have made it by his own hands. Indeed, 
I am convinced that my rich progenitor — who, let us say, 
came over with William — was nothing else than a prodigious 
thief, who either stole money in the shape of taxes, or the 
means of making money in the shape of land, from the peo- 
ple who then owned it. I therefore, you see, have no right 
to the possession of money acquired by robbery.” 

“ You only discover that when the money is gone,” said 
Will, accustomed to his father’s philosophic and easy way of 
taking things. 

“ Not at all. I have for some time back been proud to 
class myself among the richest and oldest families of Eng- 
land, in regard to the moral shadiness of our right to live on 
the produce of gigantic thievery. You see — ” 

“ I see, sir, that the moment you lose your money, you 
become a philosophic Radical.” 

“ Ah, well,” said Mr. Anerley, sending a sigh after his 
vanished riches, “ I don’t think the misfortune has touched 
us much, when we can transfer it into the region of first prin- 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


ciples. Perhaps 1 had better go up to town with you to- 
morrow, and see what practical issues it must lead to.” 

“ And in the mean time,” said Will, “ don’t tell either of 
the women.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE count’s CHANCE. 

Where is Mr. Melton ? ” asked the count. 

“Up in the ‘flies,’ sir, I believe,” said the prompter. 
“ Shall I send for him ? ” 

“No, I shall go up to him,” said the count. 

It was on the evening of the day on which he had told Will 
of Miall & Welling’s downfall. After having ascertained 
the truth of the report, he had gone to spend the remainder 
of the day at his club, in talking, reading, and dining ; and 
when he did think of going round to the theatre, he found 
that the piece in which Annie Brunei played would be over, 
and she gone home. This was as he wished. 

So he made his way up the well-worn wooden steps until 
he reached the “ flies,” where he found Mr. Melton, seated on 
the drum which rolled up the drop-scene, in earnest talk with 
a carpenter. On seeing the count, the man walked away^and 
Mr. Melton rose. 

“ Welcome back to England ! ” said the manager, rather 
nervously. “ I have been most anxious to see you.” 

“ Ah,” said the count. 

“Indeed the strangest thing has happened — completely 
floored me — never heard the like,” continued Mr. Melton, 
hurriedly. “ Have you seen Miss Brunei ? ” 

“No,” said the count. 

“ Not since*you returned ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ You are not acquainted with her resolution ? ” 

“ No.’" 

“ Then let me tell you what happened not half an hour 
ago in this very theatre. You see that scenery ? It’s all 
new. The dresses are new, new music, new decorations, ai 
new theatre, and — d — n it all, it’s enough to make a man 
mad ! ” , 

“ But what is it ? ” asked the count of the abnormally exJ 
cited manager. ^ 1 


“ A few minutes ago Miss Brunei comes to me and says, 
‘ Mr. Melton, a word with you.’ ” 

“ ‘ Certainly,’ •’said I. 

“ Then she turned a little pale ; and had that curious look 
in her eyes that she used to wear on the stage, you know ; 
and said, clearly, ‘ I am not going to act any more.’ 

“ When I had recovered breath, I said, 

“ ‘ Pardon me. Miss Brunei ; you must. Look at the ex- 
pense I have been put to in getting up this revival — ’ 

“ And then she grew excited, as if she were half mad, and 
implored me not to compel her to fulfil her engagement. 
She said her acting was a failure ; that eveiybody knew it 
was a failure ; that she had an invincible repugnance to go- 
ing on the stage again ; and that nothing would tempt her 
to begin a new piece, either with me or with anybody else. 
I can assure you, Count Schonstein, now that I think over it, 
there never was a finer scene in any play than she acted then 
— with her despair, and her appeals, and her determination. 
I thought at first she was bewitched ; and then I declare she 
was so nearly on the point of bewitching me, that I was al- 
most agreeing to everything she asked, only — ” 

Only what ? ” 

“ Only I remembered that the theatre was not only my own 
affair, and I had no business to compromise its interests by 
— you understand ? ” 

“ Quite right^ — quite right,” said the count, hastily. And 
then ? ” 

Then she left.” 

“ But what — what is the reason of her wishing to leave the 
stage ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Had she heard any — any news, for example ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Why, Melton, what a fellow you are ! ” cried the count, 
peevishly. “ I’m sure you could easily have found out, if 
you cared, what she meant by it.” 

“ 1 tell you I was quite dumbfoundered — ” 

“ And she said nothing about any news — or her prospects 
— or a change — ? ” 

“ Nothing. From what she said, I gathered that she had 
come to dislike acting, and that she was convinced her future 
career would be wretched, both for herself and the house. 
You have never asked me about the theatre at all. The 
first two or three nights the curiosity of people to see her in 


200 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


the new part gave us some good business ; JDut now the pa- 
pers have changed their tune, and the public — ” 

Mr. Melton shrugged his shoulders ; but Count Schonstein 
was paying no attention to him. 

“ If she has discove7'ed the secret f he was reasoning with 
himself, “ she would he in no such desperate hurry to leave the 
stage. If she has not., now is the time for me I' 

“ Melton,” he said, “ what w^ould be a reasonable forfeit 
if she broke her engagement ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I should say two hundred pounds. She 
said she could not offer me compensation in money, and 
that’s why she begged so hard of me fof the favor. God 
knows, if I could afford it, and were my own master, I should 
not make the poor creature keep to her engagement. Look 
at the money she used to put into the treasury every week.” 

“ Very good. Come down-stairs to your room ; I want to 
transact some business with you.” 

When they had gone down to the stage and passed through 
the wings to Mr. Melton’s private room, both men sat down 
in front of a table on which were writing materials. 

“Take a sheet of paper, like a good fellow,” said the 
count, “ and write to my dictation.” 

Melton took the pen in his hand, and the count continued : 
“ My dear Miss^Brunel., — In consideration of your past ser- 
vices., and of the great success attending [should that be attendant, 
Melton ?] upon your previous labors in this theatre, I beg to offer 
you entire liberty to break your present efigagement, at whatever 
time you please . — Yours sincerely, Charles Melton I' 

“ And what do you propose to do with that, count ? ” said 
Melton, with a smile. 

“I propose to give you this bit of paper for it,” said the 
count. 

He handed the manager an I. O. U. for two hundred 
pounds, and then carefully folded up the letter and put it in 
his pocket. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

DOUBTFUL. 

Without taking off either bonnet or cloak, Annie Brunei, 
on reaching home that night, went at once to Mrs. Christmas’s 
room, and flung herself down on the edge of the bed where 
the poor old woman lay, ailing and languid. 


DOUBTFUL. 


201 


“ Oh, mother, mother,” cried the girl, “ I can never go to 
the theatre any more ! ” * 

She buried her face in the bedclothes, and only stretched 
out her hand for sympathy. The old woman tried to put her 
arm round the girl’s neck, but relinquished the attempt with 
a sigh. 

“ What is to become of us. Miss Annie ? ” 

“ I don’t know — I don’t know,” she said, almost wildly, 
“ and why should I care any longer ? ” 

“ What new trouble is this that has fallen on us ” said Mrs. 
Christmas, faintly. “ Why do you speak like that "i ” 

“ Because I don’t know what to say, mother — because I 
would rather die than go to the theatre again — and he says I 
must. I cannot go — I cannot go — and there is no one to 
help me ! ” 

The old woman turned her eyes — and they looked large in 
the shrivelled and weakly face — on her companion. 

“ Annie, you won’t tell me what is the matter. Why should 
you hate the stage ? Hasn’t it been kind to you ? Wasn’t it 
kind to your mother — for many a long year, when she and you 
depended on it for your lives ? The stage is a kind home for 
many a poor creature whom the world has "d^st out ; and you. 
Miss Annie, who have been in a theatre all your life, what has 
taken you now ? The newspapers ? ” 

The girl only shook her head. 

“ Because the business isn’t good ? ” 

No answer. 

“ Has Mr. Melton been saying anything ? ” 

“ I tell you, mother,” said the girl, passionately, “ that I will 
not go upon the stage, because I hate it ! And I hate the 
people — I hate them for staring at me, and making me 
ashamed of myself. I hate them because they are rich, and 
happy, and full of their own concerns. Indeed, mother, I 
can’t tell you — I only know that I will never go on the stage 
again, let them do what they like. Oh, to feel their eyes on 
me, and to know that I am only there for their amusement, 
and to know that I cannot compel them to — to anything but 
sit and compassionately admire my dress, and my efforts to 
please them ! I can’t bear it. Lady Jane — I can’t bear it ! ” 
And here she broke out into a fit of hysterical sobbing. 

“ My poor dear ! when I should be strong and ready to com- 
fort you, here I am, weaker and more helpless than yourself. 
But don’t go back to the theatre, sweetheart, until your taste 
for it returns.” 

‘Ht will never return. I hate the thought of it.” 


202 


JN SILK A TTJRE. 


“But it may. And in the mean time haven’t we over forty 
pounds in the house of good savings ? ” 

“ That is nothing to what I must undertake to give Mr. 
Melton if I break my engagement. But I don’t mind that 
much, Lady Jane — I don’t mind anything except going back 
there, and you must never ask me to go back. Say that you 
won’t I We shall get along somehow.” 

“My darling, how can you imagine I would seek to send 
you back ? ” 

Annie Brunei did not sleep much that night ; but by the 
morning she had recovered all her wonted courage and self- 
composure. Indeed, it was with a new and singular sense of 
freedom and cheerfulness that she rose to find the world be- 
fore her, her own path through it as yet uncertain and full of 
risks. But she was now mistress of herself : she went to bid 
Mrs. Christmas good-morning with a blithe air, and then, as 
every Englishwoman does under such circumstances, she sent 
for the Times. 

She had no definite impression about her capabilities for 
earning her living outside of the dramatic profession, but she 
expected to find all the requisite suggestions in the Times. 
Here was column after column of proffered employment; 
surely one little bit might be allotted to her. So she sat 
down hopefully before the big sheet, and proceeded to put a 
well-defined cross opposite eaoh advertisement whioh she im- 
agined offered her a fair chanoe. 

While she was thus engaged. Count Schonstein’s brougham 
was announced ; and a few minutes thereafter, the count, 
having sent up his card, was permitted to enter the room. 

Outwardly his appearance was elaborate, and he wore a 
single deep crimson rose in the lapel of his tightly-buttoned 
frock-coat. His eyes,, however, were a little anxious, and it 
was soon apparent that he had for the present relinquished 
his grand manner. 

“ I am delighted to see you looking so well,” he said, 

“ and I hope Mrs. Christmas is also better for her holiday.” 

“ Poor Lady Jane is very ill,” said Miss Brunei, “though 
she will scarcely admit it.” 

“ Have I disturbed your political studies ? ” he aske^jb 
looking at the open newspaper. 

“ I have been reading the advertisements of situations,” 
she said, frankly. 

“ Not, I hope,” he remarked, “ with any reference to what 
I heard from Mr. Melton last night about your retiring from 
the stage ? ” 


DOUBTFUL. 


203 


“ Indeed, it is from no other cause,” she said cheerfully. 
“ I have resolved not to play any more ; but we cannot 
live without my doing something.” 

“In the mean time,” said the count, drawing a letter from 
his pocket, “ I have much pleasure in handing you this note 
from Mr. Melton. You will find that it releases you from 
your present engagement, whenever you choose to avail your- 
self of the power.” 

The young girl’s face was lighted up with a sudden glow 
of happiness and gratitude. 

“ How can I ever thank him for this great kindness "I ” she 
said — “ so unexpected, so generous ! Indeed, I must go and 
see him, and thank him personally ; it is the greatest kind- 
ness I have received for years.” 

The count was a little puzzled. 

“You understand, Miss Brunei, that — that paper, you 
see, was not quite Mr. Melton’s notion until — ” 

“ Until you asked him ? Then I am indebted to you for 
many kindnesses, but for this more than all. I feel as if you 
had given me a pair of wings. How shall I ever thank you 
sufficiently 1 ” 

“ By becoming my wife^^ 

He had nearly uttered the words ; but he did not. He 
felt that his mission that morning was too serious to be risked 
without the most cautious introduction. Besides she was in 
far too good spirits to have such a suggestion made to her. 
He felt instinctively that, in her present mood, she would 
certainly laugh at him — the most frightful catastrophe that 
can happen to a man under the circumstances. And Count 
Schonstein had sufficient acquaintance with actresses to know 
that, while they have the most astonishing capacity for emo- 
tion, if their sympathies be properly excited, there are no 
people who, in cold blood, can so accurately detect the ridic- 
ulous in a man’s exterior. An actress in love forgets every- 
thing but her love ; an actress not in love has the cruellest 
eye for the oddities or defects of figure and costume. 

At the present moment. Count Schonstein felt sure that if 
he spoke of love, and marriage, and so forth. Miss Brunei 
would be looking at the rose in his button-hole, or scanning 
his stiff necktie and collar, or the unblushing corpulence of 
his waist. In his heart he wished he had no rose in his but- 
ton-hole. 

It would be very easy to make fun of this poor count (and 
he was aware of the fact himself), as he stood there, irreso- 
lute,diffident, anxious. But there was something almost pa- 


204 


m SILK A TT2RE. 


thetic as well as comic in his position. Consider how many 
vague aspirations were concentrated upon this visit. Con- 
sider how he had thought about it as he had dressed himself 
many a morning, as he had gone to bed many a night ; how, 
with a strange sort of loyalty, he had striven to exalt his mo- 
tives and persuade himself that he was quite disinterested ; 
how the dull pursuit of his life, position, and influence had 
been tinged with a glow of sentiment and romance by meet- 
ing this young girl. 

“ She has no friends,” he said to himself, many a time, 
“ neither have I. Why should not we make common cause 
against the indifference and hauteur of society ? I can make 
a good husband — I would yield in all things to her wishes. 
And away down in Kent together — we two — even if we 
should live only for each other — ” 

The count tried hard to keep this view of the matter before 
his eyes. When sometimes his errant imagination would 
picture his marriage with the poor actress ; then his claim, on 
behalf of his wife, for the estates and title of the Marquis of 
Knottingley’s daughter ; then the surprise, the chatter of the 
clubs, the position in society he would assume, the money he 
would have at his command, the easy invitations to battues 
he could dispense like so many worthless coppers among the 
young lords and venerable baronets, and so forth, and so forth, 
he dwelt upon the prospect with an unholy and ashamed 
delight, and strove to banish it from his mind as a temptation 
of the devil. 

These conflicting motives and the long train of anticipations 
connected with them, only served to render his present situa- 
tion the more tragic. He knew that one great crisis of his 
life had come ; and it is not only incomparable heroes, pos- 
sessed of all human graces and virtues, who meet with such 
crises. 

“ When do you propose to leave the stage ? ” he asked. 

“ I have left,” she answered. 

“ You won’t play to-night ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ But Mr. Melton—? ” 

“ Since he has been so kind as to give me, at your instiga- 
tion, this release, he must get Miss Featherstone to play 
Rosalind. Nelly will play it very nicely, and my best wish- 
es will go with her.” 

“ Then I must see him instantly,” said the count, and 
give him notice to get a handbill printed.” 

If you would be so kind.” 


DOUBTFUL. 


205 


But this was too bad. She intimated her manner that 
she expected him to leave at once, merely for the sake of the 
wretched theatre. He took up the newspaper, by way of ex- 
cuse, and for a minute or two glanced down its columns. 

Have you any fixed plans about what you mean to do ? ” 
he asked. 

“ None whatever,” she replied. “ Indeed, I am in no 
hurry. You have no idea how I love this sense of freedom 
you have just given me, and I mean to enjoy it for a little 
time.” 

“ But after then ? ” 

She shrugged her shoulders and smiled : he thought he 
had never seen her look so charming. 

“ You don’t know what lies before you,” he said, gravely, 
“ if you think of battling single-handed against the crowds of 
London. You don’t know the thousands who are far more 
eager in the fight for bread than you are ; because you haven’t 
experienced the necessity yet — ” 

“ I have fought for my bread ever since my poor mother 
died,” she said. 

“ With exceptional advantages, and these you now aban- 
don. My dear Miss Brunei,” he added, earnestly, “ you don’t 
know what you’re doing. I shudder to think of the future 
that you seem to have chalked out for yourself. On the other 
hand, I see a probable future for you in which you would not 
have to depend upon any one for your support ; you would be 
independent of those people whom you profess to dislike ; 
you would be rich, happy, with plenty of amusement, nothing 
to trouble you, and you would also secure a pleasant home 
for Mrs. Christmas.” 

“ Have you imagined all that out of one of these adver- 
tisements ? ” she asked, with a smile. 

“ No, Miss Brunei,” said the count, whose earnestness gave 
him an eloquence which certainly did not often characterize 
his speech. “ Can’t you guess what I mean ? I am sure you 
know how I esteem you — you must have seen it, and perhaps 
you guessed what feelings lay behind that — and — and — now 
you are alone, as it were, you have no friends — why not 
accept my home, and become my wife ? ” 

“ Your wife ! ” she repeated, suddenly becoming quite 
grave, and looking down. 

“ Yes,” he said, delighted to find that she did not get up in 
a towering passion, as he had s^en so many ladies do, under 
similar circumstances, on the stage. I hope you do not 
feel offended. I have spoken too abruptly, perhaps ; but, 


2o6 


IN SILK A TFIRE. 


now it is out, let me beg of you to listen to me. Look at this, 
Miss Brunei, fairly ; I don’t think I have an unkind disposi- 
tion ; I am sincerely attached to you ; you are alone, as I say, 
with scarcely a friend ; we have many tastes in common ; and 
as I should have nothing to do but invent amusements for 
you, I think we should lead an agreeable life. I am not a 
very young man, but, on the other hand, I haven’t my way to 
make in the '^vorld. You don’t like the stage. I am glad of it. 

It assures me that if you would only think well of my propo- 
sal, we should lead a very agreeable life. I’m sure we should 
have a pleasant, agreeable life ; for, after all — it is absurd to 
mention this just now, perhaps — but one has a good deal of 
latitude in thirty thousand pounds a year ; and you don’t 
have to trouble your mind ; and if the most devoted affection 
can make you happy, then happy you’ll be.” 

Annie Brunei sat quite silent, and not very much affected 
or put out. She had been in good spirits all the morning, had 
been nerving herself for an heroic and cheerful view of the 
future ; and now here was something to engage her imagina- 
tion ! There is no woman in the world, whatever her training 
may have been, who, under such circumstances, and with such 
a picturesque offer held out to her, would refuse at least to re- 
gard and try to realize the prospect. 

“You are very kind,” she said, “ to do me so much honor. 
But you are too kind. You wish to prevent my being sub- 
jected to the hardships of being poor and having to work for 
a living, and you think the easiest way to do that is to make 
me the mistress of all your money.” 

“ I declare. Miss Brunei, you wrong me,” said the count, 
warmly. “ Money has nothing to do with it. I mentioned 
these things as inducements — unwisely, perhaps. Indeed it 
has nothing to do with it. Won’t you believe me when I say 
that I could hope for no greater fortune and blessing in the 
world, if neither you nor I had a farthing of money, than to 
make you my wife ” 

“ I am afraid you would be sadly disappointed,” she said, 
with a smile. ; 

“ Will, you let me risk that ? ” he said, eagerly, and trying | 
to take her hand. i 

She withdrew her hand, and rose. ) 

“ I can’t tell you yet,” she said ; “ I can scarcely believe j 
that we are talking seriously. But you have been always J 
very kind, and I’m very much obliged to you.” ^ 

“ Miss Brunei,” said the count, hurriedty — he did not like J 
to hear a lady say she was much obliged by his offer of thirty^ 


DOUBTFUL. 


207 


thousand pounds a year — “ don’t make any abrupt decision, 
if you have not made up your mind. At any rate, you don’t 
refuse to consider the matter } I knew you would at least 
do me that justice : in a week’s time, perhaps — ” 

She gave him her hand as he lifted his hat and cane, and 
he gratefully bowed over it, and ventured to kiss it • and then 
he took his leave, with a radiant smile on his face as he went 
downstairs. 

“ Club. And, d — n it, be quick ! ” hO said to his astonished 
coachman. 

Arrived there, he ordered the waiter to take up to the 
smoking-room a bottle of the pale port which the count was in 
the habit of drinking there. Then he countermanded the 
order. 

“ I needn’t make a beast of myself because I feel happy,” 
he said to himself, wisely, as he went into the dining-room. 
“ Alfred, I’ll have a bit of cold chicken, and a bottle of the 
wine that you flatter yourself is Chateau Yquem.” 

Alfred, who was a tall and stately person, with red hair and 
no y^’swasnot less astonished than the count’s coachman had 
been. However, he brought the various dishes, and then the 
wine. The count poured the beautiful amber fluid into a 
tumbler, and took a draught of it : 

“ Here’s to her health, whether the wine came from Bor- 
deaux or Biberich ! ” 

But, as a rule, the Chateau Yquem of clubs is a cold drink, 
which never sparkled under the warm sun of France ; and so, 
as the count went up-stairs to the smoking-room, he returned 
to his old love, and told them to send him a pint-bottle of port. 
He had already put twenty-two shillings’ worth of wine into 
his capacious interior ; and he had only to add a glass or two 
of port, and surround his face with the perfume of an old, 
hard, and dry cigar, in order to get into that happy mood when 
visions are born of the half-somnolent brain. 

“ .... I have done it — I have broken the ice, and there is 
still hope. Her face was pleased, her smile was friendly, her 
soft clear eyes — fancy having that smile and those eyes at your 
breakfast-table every morning, to sweeten the morning air 
for you, and make you snap your fingers at the outside world ! 
’Gad, I could write poetry about her! I’ll /we poetry — 
which wili be something better.” 

At this moment there looked into the room a handsome 
and dressy young gentleman who was the funny fellow of the 
club. He lived by his wits, and managed to make a good in- 
come, considering the material on which he had to work. 


208 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


“ What a courageous man — port in the forenoon ! ” he said 
to the count. 

The other said nothing, but inwardly devoted the new- 
comer to the deeps of Hades. 

“ And smoking to our old port ! ” 

“ A cigar doesn’t make much difference to club- wines, young 
gentleman,” said the count, grandly. 

“ Heard a good thing just now. Fellow was abusing 
Scotchmen to a Scotch tradesman, and of course Bannockburn 
was mentioned. ‘ Why,’ says the Englishman, ‘ plenty of my 
countrymen were buried at Bannockburn, and there you have 
rich harvests of grain. Plenty of your countrymen were 
buried at Culloden, and there you have only a barren waste. 
Scotchmen can’t even fatten the land.’ ” 

“ Did he kill him ? ” 

“ No ; the Englishman was a customer.” 

Once more the count was left to his happy imaginings. 

“ Then the marriage,” he thought to himself, then the mar- 
riage — the girls in white. Champagne, fun, horses, and flowers, 
and away for France ! No Trouville for me, no Etretat, no 
Biarritz. A quiet old Norman town, with an old inn, and an 
old priest ; and she and I walking about like the lord and lady 
of the place, with all the children turning and looking at her 
as if she were an Italian saint come down from one of the 
pictures in the church. This is what I offer her — instead of 
what.^ A seamstress’s garret in Camden Town, or a music- 
mistress’s lodgings in Islington, surrounded by squalid and 
dingy people, glaring public-houses, smoke, foul air, wretched- 
ness, and misery. I take her from the slums of Islington, 
and I lead her down into the sweet air of Kent, and I make 
a queen of her ! ” 

The count’s face beamed with pleasure and port. The 
very nimbleness of his own imagination tickled him. 

“ Look at her ! In a white cool morning-dress, with her 
big heaps of black hair braided up, as she goes daintily down 
into the garden in the warm sunshine, andheiTittle fingers are 
gathering a bouquet for her breast. The rawboned wives of 
your country gentry, trying to cut a dash on the money they 
get from selling their extra fruit and potatoes, turn and look 
at my soft little Italian princess, as she lies back in her ba- 
rouche and regards them kindly enough, God bless her ! What 
a job I shall have to teach her her position — to let her know 
that, now she is a lady, the time for general good-humor is 
gone ! Mrs. Anerley, yes ; but none of your clergymen’s 
wives, nor your doctors’ wives, nor your cow-breeding squires’ 


DOUBTFUL. 


209 


wives for her ! Day after day, week after week, nothing but 
brightness, and pleasure, and change. All this I am going to 
give her in exchange for the squalor of Islington ! ” 

The count regarded himself as the best of men. At this 
moment, however, there strolled into the smoking-room a cer- 
tain Colonel Tyrwhitt, who was connected by blood or mar- 
riage with half a dozen peerages, had a cousin in the Cabinet, 
and wore on his finger a ring given him by the decent and 
devout old King of Saxony. This colonel — “ a poor devil I 
could buy up twenty times over,” said the count, many a ume 
— walked up to the fire-place, and, turning, proceeded to 
contemplate the count, his wine, and cigar, as if these objects 
had no sensible existence. He stroked his gray mustache 
once or twice, yawned very openly, and then walked lazily 
out of the room again without having uttered a word. 

“D — n him !” said the count, mentally; “the wretched- 
pauper, who lives by loo, and looks as grand as an emperor, 
because he has some swell relations, who won’t give him a 
farthing. These are the people who will be struck dumb 
with amazement and envy by-and-by. My time is coming.” 

“ ‘ Ah ! my dear fellah ! ’ says this colonel to me, some 
morning, ‘ I’ve heard the news. Congratulate you — all my 
heart. Lord Bockerminster tells me you’ve some wonderful 
shooting down in Berks.’ 

“ ‘ So I have,’ says I ; ‘ and I should be glad, colonel, to 
ask you down ; but you know my wife and I have to be 
rather select in our choice of visitors — ’ 

“ ‘ What the devil do you mean ? ’ says he. 

“ ‘ Only that our list of invitations is closed for the pres- 
ent’ 

“ Suppose he gets furious "i Let him ! I don’t know much 
about fencing or pistol-shooting, but I’d undertake to punch 
his head twenty times a week.” 

The count took another sip of port, and pacified himself. 

“Then the presentation to her majesty. I shouldn’t won- 
der if the queen took us up, when she gets to learn Annie’s 
story. It would be just like the queen to make some sort of 
compensation ; and once she saw her it would be all right. 
The Court Circular — ‘ Osborne, May ist. Count Schonstein 
and Lady Annie Knottingley had the honor of dining with 
the queen and the royal family.’ Lord Bockerminster comes 
up to me, and says, 

“ ‘ Schonstein, old boy, when are you going to give me a 
turn at your pheasants ? I hear you have the best preserves 
in the South of England.’ 

14 


210 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


“ ^Well, you see, my lord,’ I say, carelessly, ‘I have the 

Duke of S and a party of gentlemen going down on the 

ist, and the duke is so particular about the people he meets 
that I — you understand ? ’ 

“ And why only a duke ? The Prince of Wales is as fond 
of pheasant-shooting as anybody else, I suppose. Why 
shouldn’t he come down with the princess and a party ? And 
I’d make the papers talk of the splendid hospitality of the 
place, if I paid, damme, a thousand pounds for every dish. 
Then to see the princess — God bless her, for she’s the hand- 
somest woman in England, bar one ! — walking down on the 
terrace with Annie, while the prince comes up to me and 
chaffs me about some blunder I made the day before. Then 
I say, 

“ ‘ Well, your royal highness, if your royal highness was 
over at Schonstein and shooting with my keepers there, per- 
haps you might put your foot in it too.’ 

“ ‘ Count Schonstein,’ says he, ‘ 570u’re a good fellow and 
a trump, and you’ll come with your pretty wife and see us at 
Marlborough House ? ’ ” 

The count broke into a loud and triumphant laugh, and had 
nearly demolished the glass in front of him by an unlucky 
sweep of the arm. Indeed, farther than this interview with 
these celebrated persons, the imagination of the count could 
not carry him. He could wish for nothing beyond these things, 
except the perpetuity of them. The Prince of Wales should 
live forever, if only to be his friend. 

And if this ultimate and royal view of the future was even 
more pleasing than the immediate and personal one, it never 
occurred to him that there could be any material change in 
passing from one to the other. Annie Brunei was to be grate- 
ful and loving towards him for having taken her from “ the 
squalor of Islington ” to give her a wealthy station ; she was 
to be equally grateful and loving when she found herself the 
means of securing to her husband that position and respect 
which he had deceived her to obtain. Such trifling points 
were lost in the full glory which now bathed the future that 
lay before his eyes. Annie Brunei had shown herself not 
unwilling to consent, which was equivalent to consenting ; 
and there only remained to be reaped all the gorgeous hap- 
piness which his imagination, assisted by a tolerable quantity 
of wine, could conceive. 


MOTHER CHRISTMAS'S STORY, 


21 r 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

MOTHER Christmas’s story. 

Annie Brunel ran into Mrs. Christmas’s room the moment 
Count Schonstein had left, and, sitting down by the bed-side, 
took the old woman’s lean hand in hers. 

“ Lady Jane, I have been jpoking over the advertisements 
in the Times^ and do you know what I have found ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ One offering me a marvellous lot of money, and a fine 
house in the country, with nice fresh air and constant attend- 
ance for you. Horses, carriages, opera-boxes, months at the 
sea-side — everything complete. There ! ” 

“ Why don’t you take it, sweetheart ? ” said the old woman, 
with a faint smile. 

“ Because — I don’t say that I sha’n’t take it — there is a 
condition attached, and such a condition ! Not to puzzle you, 
mother, any more. Count Schonstein wants me to be his wife. 
Now ! ” 

“ Are you serious, Annie ? ” said Mrs. Christmas, her aged 
eyes full of astonishment. 

“ I can’t say. I don’t think the count was. You know he 
is not a witty man, mother, and it might be a joke. But if it 
was a joke, he acted the part admirably — he pulled two leaves 
out of my photographic album, and nibbled a hole in the table 
cover with his nail. He sat so^ Lady Jane, and said, in a 
deep bass voice, ‘ Miss Brunei, I have thirty thousand pounds 
a year ; I am old ; I am affectionate ; and will you marry me ? ’ 
Anything more romantic you could not imagine ; and the sighs 
he heaved, and the anxiety of his face, would have been ad- 
mirable, had he been dressed as Orlando, and playing to my 
Rosalind. ‘ For these two hours^ Rosalind, I will leave theel 
‘ Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours / ’ ” 

“ Sweetheart, have you growm mad ? What do you mean ? ” 

“ I mean what I say. Must I describe the whole scene to 
you ? — my lover’s fearful diffidence, my gentle silence, his 
growing confidence, my wonder and bewilderment; finally, 
his half concealed joy, and my hasty rush to you, Lady Jane, 
to tell you the news ? ” 

“ And a pretty return you are making for any man’s con- 
fidence and affection, to go on in that way ! What did you 
say to him ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 


212 


IN SILK A rriRE. 


“ And what do you mean to say ? ’’ 

“Nothing. What can I say, Lady Jane I am sure he 
must have been joking ; and, if not, he ought to have been. 
At the same time, I don’t laugh at the count himself, mother, 
but at his position a few minutes ago.” 

“ And as you laugh at that, you laugh at the notion of be- 
coming his wife.” 

The smile died away from the girl’s face, and for some 
time she sat and gazed wistfully before her. Then she said, 

“You ought to be able to say what I ought to do, mother. 
I did not say no, I did not say yes ; I was too afraid to say 
either. And now, if we are to talk seriously about it, I am 
quite as much afraid. Tell me what to do. Lady Jane.” 

“ Is it so entirely a matter of indifference that you can ac- 
cept my advice ? ” 

“ It is quite a matter of indifference,” said the girl calmly. 

“ Do you love him, Annie ? ” said the old woman. 

For one brief second the girl’s thoughts flashed to the man 
whom she did love ; but they returned with only a vague im- 
pression of pain and doubt. She had not had time to sit down 
and reason out her course of duty. She could only judge, as 
yet, by the feelings awakened by the count’s proposal, and 
the pictures which it exhibited to her mind. 

“ Do I love him, mother ? ” she said, in a low voice. “ I 
like him very well, and I am sure he is very fond of me ; I 
am quite sure of that.” 

“ Agd what do you say yourself about it ? ” 

“ What can I say ^ If I marry him,” she said, coldly, “ it 
will give him pleasure, and I know he will be kind to me and 
to you. It is his wish — not mine. We should not be asking 
or receiving a favor, mother. I suppose he loves me as Wjell 
as he loves any one ; and I suppose I can make as good a 
wife as any one else.” 

There was in this speech the faint indication of a bitter- 
ness having its root in a far deeper bitterness, which had sug- 
gested the whole tone of this interview. When Mrs. Christmas 
thought the girl was laughing cruelly at a man who had paid 
her the highest compliment in his power, when she saw this 
girl exhibiting an exaggerated heartlessness in talking of the 
proposed marriage as a marriage of convenience, she did not 
know that this indifference and heartlessness were but the ex- 
pression of a deep and hopeless and despairing love. 

“ Poverty is not a nice thing, mother ; and until I should 
have established myself as a teacher of music, we should 
have to be almost beggars. The count offers us a pleasant 


MOTHER CHRISTMAS'S STORY. 213 

life ; and I dare say I can make his dull house a little more 
cheerful to him. It is a fair bargain. He did not ask me if I 
loved him ; probably he did not see the necessity any more 
than I do. What he proposes will be a comfortable arrange- 
ment for all of us.” 

Mrs. Christmas looked at the calm, beautiful, sad face, and 
said nothing. 

“ I think the count is an honorable, well-meaning man,” 
continued the girl, in the same cold tone. “ If he sometimes 
makes himself ridiculous, so do most of us ; and doubtless he 
is open to improvement. I think he is remarkably good- 
natured and generous, and I am sure he will be kind to us.” 

Consider Mrs. Chrismas’s position. An old woman, almost 
bedridden, ailing, and requiring careful and delicate attention 
— one who has seen much of the folly of love and much of 
the power of money — is asked for her advice by a young girl 
who is either, on the one hand, to marry a wealthy, good-natur- 
ed man, willing to give both a comfortable home, or, on the 
other hand, to go out alone into the world of London, unpro- 
tected and friendless, to earn bread for two people. Even 
admitting that no grain of selfishness should color or shape 
her advice, what was she likely to say .? 

Ninety-nine women out of a hundred, under such circum- 
stances, would say : “ My dear, be sensible, and accept the 

offer of a worthy and honorable gentleman, instead of expos- 
ing yourself to the wretchedness and humiliation of poverty. 
Romance won’t keep you from starving ; and, besides, in 
your case there is no romantic affection to compel you to 
choose between love and money. People who have come to 
my time of life know the advantages of securing a happy 
home and kind friends.” 

This, too, is probably what Mrs. Christmas would have 
said, if she had not been born and bred an actress. This is 
what she did say : 

“ My dear ” (with a kindly smile on the wan face), “ sup- 
pose you and I are going forward to the foot-lights, and I 
take your hand in mine, and look into your face, and say, 

^ Listen to the sad story of your mother’s life ? ’ ” 

“ Well, Lady Jane ? ” 

“ You are supposed to be interested in it, and take its 
•moral deeply to heart. Well, I’m going to tell you a story, 
sweetheart, although you may not see any moral in it — it’s a 
story your mother knew.” 

“ If she were here now ! ” the girl murmured, inadvertently. 

“ When I was three years younger than you, I was first 


214 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


chambermaid in the Theatre Royal, Bristol. Half the pit 
were my sweethearts ; and I got heaps of letters, of the kind 
that you know, Annie— some of them impudent, some of them 
very loving and respectful. Sometimes it was, ‘ My dear 
miss, will you take a glass of wine with me at such and 
such a place, on such and such a night ? ’ and sometimes it 
was, ‘ I dare not seek an introduction, lest I read my fate in 
your refusal. I can only look at you from afar off, and be 
miserable.^ Poor boys ! they were all very kind to me, and 
used to take such heaps of tickets for my benefits I for in 
Bristol, you know, the first chambermaid had a benefit, like 
her betters.” 

“There were none better than you in the theatre, I’m sure, 
mother,” said Annie. 

“ Don’t interrupt the story, my dear ; for we are at the foot- 
lights, and the gallery is supposed to be anxious to hear it. 
I declare I have always loved the top gallery. There you. 
find critics who are attentive, watchful, who are ready to 
applaud when they’re pleased, and to hiss when they’re not. 
Well, there was one poor lad, out of all my admirers, got to 
be acquainted with our little household, and he and I became 
— friends. He was a wood-engraver, or something like that, 
only a little older than myself — long fair hair, a boyish face, 
gentleness like a girl about him ; and nothing would do but 
that I should engage to be his wife, and he was to be a great 
artist and do wonders for my sake.” 

The hard look on the young girl’s face had died away now, 
and there was a dreaminess in her eyes. 

“ I did promise ; and for about two years we were a couple 
of the maddest young fools in the world — I begging him to 
make haste, and get money, and marry me ; he full of auda- 
cious schemes, and as cheerful as a lark in the certainty of 
marrying me. He tried painting pictures ; then he began 
scene-painting, and succeeded so well that he at last got an 
engagement in a London theatre, and nearly broke his heart 
when he went away there to make money for both of us.” 

The old woman heaved a gentle sigh. 

“ Whenever I’m very sad, all the wretchedness of that first 
parting of my life comes over me, and I see the wet streets of 
Bristol, and the shining lamps, and his piteous face, though 
he tried to be very brave over it and cheer me up. I felt like 
a stone, and didn’t know what was going on ; I only wished 
that I could get away into a corner and cry myself dead. 
Very well, he went, and I remained in Bristol. I needn’t tell 
vou how it came about — how I was a little tired of waiting, 


MOTHER CHRISTMAS'S STORY. 


2*5 


and we had a quarrel, and, in short, I married a gentleman 
who had been very kind and attentive to me. He was over 
thirty, and had plenty of money, for he was a merchant in 
Bristol, and his father w'as an old man who had made a fine 
big fortune in Jamaica. He was very kind to me, in his way, 
and for a year or two we lived very well together ; but I knew 
that he thought twenty times of his business for once he 
thought of me. And what was I thinking of ? Ah, Miss 
Annie, don’t consider me very wicked if I tell you that from 
the hour in which I was married there never passed a single 
day in which I did not think of the olker one.^^ 

“ Poor mother ! ” said the girl. 

“ Every day ; and I used to go down on my knees and pray 
for him, that so I might be sure my interest in him was harm- 
less. We came to London, too : and every time I drove along 
the streets — I sat in my own carriage, then, my dear — I used 
to wonder if I should see him. I went to the theatre in which 
he was scene-painter, thinking I might catch a glimpse of him 
from one of the boxes, passing through the wings ; but I 
never did. I knew his house, however, and sometimes I 
passed it ; but I never had the courage to look at the windows, 
for fear he should be there. It was very wicked, very wicked, 
Annie.” 

“ Was your husband kind to you ?” 

“ In a distant sort of way that tormented me. He seemed 
always to consider me an actress, and a baby ; and he invari- 
ably went out into society alone, lest I should compromise 
him, I suppose. I think I grew mad altogether ; for one day 
I leh his house resolved never to go back again.” 

“ And you said he was kind to you ! ” repeated the girl, with 
a slight accent of reproach. 

“ I suppose I was mad, Annie ; at any rate, I felt myself 
driven to it, and couldn’t help myself. I went straight to the 
street in which he lived, and walked up and down, expecting 
to meet him. He did not come. I took lodgings in a coffee- 
house. Next day I went back to that street ; even then I did 
not see him. On the third afternoon I saw him come down 
the steps from his house, and I all at once felt sick and cold. 
How different he looked now ! — firm, and resolute, and manly, 
but still with the old gentleness about the eyes. He turned 
very pale when he saw me, and was about to pass on. Then 
he saw that my eyes followed him, and perhaps they tolcJ h’m 
something, for he turned and came up to me, and held out his 
hand, without saying a word.” 


2i6 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


‘ You forgive me ? ’ I said, and he said ‘ Yes ’ so eagerly 
that I looked up again. I took his arm, and we walked on in 
the oid fashion, and I forgot everything but the old, old days, 
and I wished I could have died just then. It seemed as if all 
the hard intervening years had been swept out, and we were 
still down in Bristol, and still looking forward to a long life 
together. I think we were both out of our senses for several 
minutes ; and I shall never forget the light there was on his 
face and in his eyes. Then he began to question me, and all 
at once he turned to me, with a scared look, and said, 

‘ What have you done ? ’ 

“ It was past undoing then. I knew he loved me at that 
moment as much as ever, by the terrible state he got into. 
He implored me to go back to my husband. I told him it was 
too late. I had already been away two days from home. 

“ ‘ If I could only have seen you on the day you left your 
husband’s house,’ he said, ‘ this would never have happened. 
I should have made you go back.’ 

“ Then I began to feel a kind of fear, and I said, 

“ ‘ What am I to do, Charlie ? What are you going to do 
with me ? ’ 

“ ‘ I ? ’ he said. ‘ Do you ask me what I must do ? Would 
you have me leave my wife and children ? ’ 

“ I did not know he was married, you see. Miss Annie. 
Oh, the shame that came over me when I heard these words ! 
The moment before I scarcely knew that I walked at all, so 
deliriously full of joy I was ; then I wished the ground would 
open beneath my feet. He offered to go to my husband and 
intercede for me ; but I would have drowned myself rather 
than go back. I was the wretchedest woman in the whole 
world. And I could see that he loved me as much as ever, 
though he never would say so. That is all of my story that 
need concern you ; but shall I tell you the rest, Miss Annie ? ” 

“ Yes, Lady Jane.” 

“ Your mother was then the most popular actress in London ; 
she could do anything she liked in the theatre ; and it was for 
that theatre that he chiefly worked then, though he became a 
great artist afterward. Well, he took me back to the coffee- 
house, and left me there ; and then he went and persuaded 
your mother to take an interest in me, and through her means 
I got an engagement in the same theatre. From the moment 
I was settled there, he treated me almost like a stranger. 
He took off his hat to me in the street^ and passed on without 
speaking. If I met him in the theater, he would say ‘Good- 
evening,’ as he would to the other ladies. He used to send 


MOTHER CHRISTMASES STORY. 


217 


me little presents, and he never forgot my birthday ; but they 
were always sent anonymously, and if I saw him the next day 
he seemed more distant than 'ever, as if to keep me away. 
Oh ! many and many a time have I been on the point of 
throwing myself at his feet, and clasping his knees, and thank- 
ing him with my whole heart for his goodness to me. I used 
to hate his wife, whom I had never seen, until one Sunday 
morning I saw her and him going to church — one little girl 
at his hand, another at hers — and the sweet face she had 
turned my heart towards her. Would you believe it ? he 
bowed to me as kindly and respectfully as ever, and I think 
he would have stopped and spoken to me then^ only I hurried 
away out of his sight.” 

“ And you never went back ? ” said the girl, softly. 

“ How could I go back, clothed with shame, and subject 
myself to his suspicion ? Besides, he was the last man to have 
taken me back. Once he felt sure I had left his house wil- 
fully, I am certain he did not trouble himself much about me 
— as why should he ? — why should he ? ” 

“ It is a very sad story, Lady Jane.” 

“ And it has a moral.” 

“ But not for me. You are afraid I should marry Count 
Schonstein out of pique, and so be wretched ? But there is 
no other person whom I could marry.” 

“ Come closer to me, sweetheart. There, bend your head 
down, and whisper. Is there no other person whom you love ? ” 

“ The girl’s head was so close down to the pillow that the 
blush on her face was unseen as she said, in a scarcely audi- 
ble voice, 

“ There is^ mother 

“ I thought so, my poor girl. And he loves ybu, does he 
not ? ” 

“ He does. Lady Jane. That is the misery of it.” 

“ You think he is not rich enough ? He has his way to 
make Or perhaps his friends—.? ” 

“You are speaking of — ?” 

“Mr. Anerley.” 

“ But all your conjectures are wrong, mother — all quite 
wrong. Indeed, I cannot explain it to you. I only know, 
mother, that I am very unhappy.” 

“And you mean to many Count Schonstein to revenge 
yourself .? ” 

“ I did not say I would marry Count Schonstein,” said the 
girl, fretfully, “and I have nothing to revenge. I am very 
sorry, Lady Jane, to think of the sad troubles you have had 


2r8 


JN SILK A TTIRE. 


and you are very good to warn me ; but I have not quarrelled 
with anybody, and I am not asked to wait in order to marry 
anybody^ and — ” 

Here she raised herself up, and the old, bitter, hard look 
came to the sad and gentle face. 

“ — And if I should marry Count Schonstein, I shall disap- 
point no one, and break no promise. Before I marry Count 
Schonstein, he shall know what he may expect from me. I 
can give him my esteem, and confidence, and a certain amount 
of liking; and many people have lived comfortably on less. 
And you, mother, should be the last to say anything against 
an arrangement which would give you comfort, and relieve 
your mind from anxiety.” 

“ And you have lived so long with me,” said old Mother 
Christmas, reproachfully, “ and you don’t know yet that sooner 
than let my comfort bring you to harm, Annie, or tempt you 
to a false step, I would twenty times rather beg my bread ? ” 

“ Forgive me, mother ! ” said the girl impetuously, “ but I 
don’t know what I’ve been saying. Everything seems wrong 
and cruel ; and if I forget that you have been a mother to me, 
it is — it is because — I am — so miserable that — ” 

And here the two women had a hearty cry together, which 
smoothed down their troubles for the present, and drew them 
closer to each other. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

LEFT ALONE. 

“No,” said Dove, blocking up the door-way with her slight 
little figure, as the w'agonette was driven round, “ neither of 
you stirs a step until you tell me where you are going.” 

Will’s last injunction to his father had been, “ Don’t let the 
women know.” So the women did not know ; and on this 
Monday morning both men were stealthily slipping away up 
to London when the heroic little Dove caught them in the act. 

“We are going to London, my dear,” said Mr. Anerley. 

“ On business,” said Will. 

“ Yes, on business ! ” said Dove, pouting. “ I know what 
it is. You go into somebody’s office in the forenoon and talk 
a little; and then both of you go away and play billiards; 
then you dine at Will’s club or at a hotel, and then you go to 
the theatre.” 


LEFT ALONE. 


ai9 


“Will has been telling tales,” said Mr. Anerley. 

“ And to-day of all days,” continued the implacable Dove, 
“ when you know very well, papa, and you needn’t try to deny 
it, that you promised to help me in getting down the last of 
the walnuts. No ; neither of you shall stir this day ; so you 
may as well send back the wagonette.” 

“ My dear, the most important business — ” said Mr. Aner- 
ley, gravely. 

“ I don’t care,” said Dove. “ If you two people are going 
up to amuse yourselves in London, you must take me. Else 
stay at home.” 

“.But how can you go ? ” said Will. “ We have now barely 
time to catch the train.” 

“ Go by the ten-o’clock train,” said Dove, resolutely, “ and 
I shall be dressed by then. Or the walnuts, if you like.” 

“Of the two evils, I prefer to take you,” said- Will. “ So 
run and get your things ready ; and we shall take you to the 
theatre to-night.” 

“ My boy,” said his father, when she was gone, “ look at 
the additional expense.” 

“ In for a penny, in for a pound, father,” said Will. “ I 
shall allow my finances to suffer for the stall-tickets ; and you, 
having just been ruined, ought to be in a position to give us 
a very nice dinner. People won’t believe you have lost your 
money unless you double your expenditure and scatter money 
about as freely as dust.” 

“ You both look as if I had thrust myself on you ! ” said 
Dove, reproachfully, as they all got into the wagonette and 
drove off. “ But I forgive you, as you’re going to take me to 
the theatre. Shall I tell you which. Will .? Take me to see 
Miss Brunei, won’t you ? ” 

She looked into his face for a moment ; but there was 
evidently no covert intention in her words. 

From Charing Cross Station they drove to the Langham Ho- 
tel. Dove said she was not afraid to spend an hour or so (un- 
der the shelter of a thick veil) in looking at the Regent Street 
and Oxford Street shops, while the gentlemen were gone in- 
to the City. At the expiry of that time she was to return 
to the hotel and wait for them. They then took a hansom 
and drove to Mr. Anerley’s solicitor. 

“ And there,” said Mr. Anerley, on the way, “ as if we were 
not sufficiently penniless, Hubbard’s brougham and a pair of 
his horses are coming over to-morrow.” 

“ Did you buy them ? ” 

“Yes.” 


330 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


“Why?’’ 

“ For Dove. I was afraid of her driving in an open vehicle 
during the winter, as she has been rather delicate all the time 
you were away. I had calculated on selling the wagonette 
and Oscar ; and now I have the whole lot on my hands.” 

“ How much have you promised him for them ? ” 

“Two hundred pounds. I hope he’ll let me withdraw 
from the bargain.” 

“ He won’t. I know the count very well,” said the young 
man. “ He is a good fellow in his way, but he wants credit 
for his goodness. He’ll stick to this bargain, because he 
thinks it advantageous to himself ; and theri he will, with the 
greatest freedom, lend you the two hundred pounds, or a 
larger sum, if you require it. Nor will he lend you the 
money at interest ; but he will let you know what interest 
he would have received had he lent it to somebody else.” 

“ Perhaps so. But how to pay him the two hundred 
pounds ? ” 

“Tell him, if he does not take back his brougham and 
horses you will become bankrupt, and only pay him tenpence 
in the pound.” 

Mr. Anerley’s solicitor — a stout, cheerful little man — did 
his very best to look sorrowful, and would probably have 
shed tears, had he been able, to give effect to his condo- 
lences. Any more material consolation he had none. There 
was no doubt about it : Miall & Welling had wholly collapsed. 
Ultimately the lawyer suggested that things might pull to- 
gether again ; but in the mean time share-holders were likely 
to suffer. 

“ They do hint queer things about the directors,” he con- 
tinued, “ and if what I hear whispered be true. I’d have some 
of them put in the stocks until they told what they had done 
with the money. I’d make ’em disgorge it, sir. Why; sir, 
men settling their forty or fifty thousand a year on their wives 
out of money belonging to all sorts of people who have worked 
for it, who have nothing else to live on, who are likely to 
starve — ” 

“ My dear sir,” said Mr. Anerley, calmly, “ you don’t look 
at the matter ni its proper light. You don’t see the use of 
such men. You don’t reflect that the tendency to excess of 
reproduction in animals is wholesomely checked by the ravages 
of other animals. But who is to do that for men, except 
men ? There is, you see, a necessity for human tigers, to prey 
on^Ji^ir species, kill the weakly members, and improve the 


LEFT ALONE, 


221 


race by limiting its numbers and narrowing the conditions of 
existence.” 

“ That’s very nice as a theory, Mr. Anerley ; but it 
wouldn’t console me for losing the money that you have 
lost.” 

“ Because you don’t believe in it. Tell me now, how is a 
penniless man, without a trade, but with some knowledge of 
the multiplication-table, to gain a living in London ? ” 

“ There are too many trying to solve the problem, Mr. An- 
erley,” said the lawyer. 

“You say there is a chance of the bank retrieving itself in 
a certain time ? ” 

“ Yes. I have shown you how the money has been sunk. 
But in time — ” 

“ Until then, those who are in a position like myself must 
contrive to exist somehow ? ” 

“ That’s it.” 

“ Unfortunately, I never settled, as you know, a farthing 
on my wife ; and as for my life-insurance, they illogically and 
unreasonably exclude suicide from their list of casualties. 
Your ordinary suicide does not compass his own death any 
more doggedly than the man who persists in living in an un- 
drained house, or in drinking brandy until his brain gives 
way, or in lighting his pipe in a coal-mine. However, that’s 
neither here nor there. You have been my lawyer, Mr. 
Green, for a great many years, and you have given me some 
good advice ; but at the most critical moment I find you with- 
out a scrap. Still, I bear you no malice, for I don’t owe 
you any money.” 

“ It isn’t very easy, sir, to tell a gentleman how to recover 
his fortune,” said Mr. Green, with a smile, glad that his 
client was taking matters so coolly. 

“ I w'as a gentleman three days ago,’^ said Mr. Anerley. 
“ Now I am a man, very anxious to live, and not seeing my 
way clearly towards that end.” 

“ Come, sir,” said Will, “ Mr. Green is anxious to live too, 
and we are taking up his time.” 

“ But really, Mr. Anerley,” said the lawyer, “ I should like 
to know what your views are.” 

“ Ah, you want to know what I propose to do. I am not 
good at blacking boots ; I am indifferent at cookery. Gar- 
(lening^well, no. I should like to be head-keeper to a 
diike; or, if they start any more of these fancy stage-coaches 
k.'f.veci^ London and the sea-side, I can drive pretty well.^’ 
You are joking,” said the other, dubiously. 


222 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


“ A man with empty pockets never jokes, unless he hopes 
to fill them. At present — well, good-day to you ; you will 
let me know if you hear of anything to my advantage.” 

No sooner were they outside, than Will earnestly remon- 
strated with his father. 

“ You should not suddenly lose your pride, sir.” 

“ I never had any, my boy. If I had, it is time I should 
lose it.” 

“ And why need you talk of taking a situation ? If you 
can only tide over a little time, Miall & Welling will come all 
right.” 

“ My lad, the bladders that help you to float in that little 
time are rather expensive.” 

“ I 'have a few pounds — ” 

“ And you will lend me them ? Good. What we must do 
now is this : Get your landlord to give us a couple of bed- 
rooms in the house, and we can all use your sitting-rooom. 
Then we shall be together ; and the first opportunity I have 
offered me of earning money, in whatever employment, I will 
accept it.” 

“ If I were not disabled, sir, by this confounded arm, you 
would not need to do anything of the kind.” 

“ Tut ! Every man for himself, and all of us for popr 
Dove, who at present will be moping up in that great room, 
terrified by the attentions of the waiters.” 

How they passed the day does not matter to us. In the 
evening they went to the theatre, and chose, at Will’s in- 
stigation, the dress-circle instead of the stalls. He hoped 
that he might escape being seen. 

He had scarcely cast his eye over the bill handed to him 
by the box-keeper, when he discovered that Annie Brunei’s 
name was not there at all. 

“ Dove,” he said, “ here’s a disappointment for you. Miss 
Featherstone plays Rosalind to-night, not Miss Brunei.” 

“ Doesn’t she appear at all to-night ? ” said Dove, with a 
crestfallen face. 

“ Apparently not. Will you go to some other theatre ? ” 

“ No,” said Dove, decidedly. “ I want to see Rosalind, 
whoever is Rosalind. Don’t you, papa ? ” 

“ My dear, I want to see anything that you want to see ; 
and I’m sure to be pleased if you laugh.” 

“ It isn’t a laughing part, and you know that quite well, 
you tedious old thing,” said Dove. 

Will went and saw Mr. Melton, from whom he learned little 


LEFT ALONE 


225 


beyond the fact that Annie Brunei did not intend to act any 
more in his theatre. 

“ She is not unwell ? ” 

“ I believe not.” 

“ Has she given up the stage altogether ? ” 

“I fancy so. You’d better ask Count Schonstein : he 
seems to know all about it,” said Mr. Melton, with a peculiar 
smile. 

“ Why should he know all about it ? ” asked Will, rather 
angrily ; but Melton only shrugged his shoulders. 

He returned to his place by Dove’s side ; but the peculiar 
meaning of that smile — or rather the possible meaning of it 
— vexed and irritated him so that he could not remain there. 
He professed himself tired of having seen the piece so often ; 
and said he would go out for a walk, to cure himself of a head- ^ 
ache he had, and return before the play was over. 

So he went out into the cool night-air, and wandered care- 
lessly on along the dark streets, bearing vaguely westward. 
He was thinking of many things, and scarcely knew that he 
rambled along Piccadilly, and still westward, until he found 
himself in the neighborhood of Kensington. 

Then he stopped ; and when he recognized the place in 
which he stood, he laughed slightly and bitterly. 

Down here, of course ! I had persuaded myself I had no 
wish to go to the theatre beyond that of taking Dove there, 
and that I was not disappointed when I found she did not 
play. Well, my feet are honester than my head.” 

He took out his watch. He had walked down so quickly 
that there were nearly two hours before he had to return to 
the theatre. Then he said to himself that, as he had nothing 
to do, he might as well walk down and take a look at the 
house which he knew so well. Perhaps it was the last time 
he might look on it, and know that she was inside. 

So he walked m that direction, taking little heed of the 
objects around him. People passed and repassed along the 
pavement ; they were to him vague and meaningless shadows, 
occasionally lighted up by the glare of a shop- window or a 
lamp. Here and there he noticed some tall building or other 
object, which recalled old scenes and old times; and, indeed, 
he walked on in a kind of dream, in which the past was as 
clearly around him as the present. 

At the corner of the street leading down to the smaller 
street, or square, in which Annie Brunei lived, there was a 
chemist’s shop, with large windows looking both ways. Also 
Hi the corner of the pavement was a lamp, which shed its clear 


'124 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


orange light suddenly on the faces of the men and women 
who passed. 

He paused there for a moment, uncertain whether to turn 
or venture on, when a figure came out of the shop which — 
without his recognizing either the dress or the face — startled 
him, and made him involuntarily withdraw a step. It was 
the form, perhaps, or the motion, that told him who it was ; 
at all events, he knew that she herself was there, within a few 
yards of him. He did not know what to do. There was a 
vague desire in his heart to throw to the wind all considera- 
tions — his promise, his duty to one very dear to him ; but he 
only looked apprehensively at her. It was all over in a second, 
in half a second. She caught sight of him, shrunk back a 
little, uncertain, trembling, and then appeared as if she were 
^ about to pass on. But the great yearning in both their hearts 
suddenly became master of the situation ; for, at the same 
moment, apparently moved by the same impulse, they ad- 
vanced to each other, he caught her hands in his, and there 
was between them only one intense look of supreme and un- 
utterable joy. 

Such a look it is given to most men to recfeivConce or twice 
— seldom oftener — in their lives. It is never to be forgotten. 
When a strong revulsion of feeling, from despondency and 
despair to the keen delight of meeting again, draws away 
from a girl’s eyes that coy veil of maiden bashfulness that 
generally half shrouds their light, when the spirit shines full 
and frank there, no disguise being longer possible, and it 
seems as if the beautiful eyes had speech in them — but how 
is it possible to describe such a moment in cold and brittle 
words ^ The remembrance of one such meeting colors a 
man’s life. You know that when you have lain and dreamed 
of enjoying companionship with one hopelessly separated 
from.you — of seeing glad eyes you can never see again, and 
hearing sweet talk that you can never again hear — you rise 
with a confused sense of happiness, as if the morning air were 
full of tender thrills ; you still hear the voice, and you seem 
to be walking by the side of the sea, and there is sunshine 
and the sound of waves abroad. That dizzy remembrance, 
in itself a perplexing, despairing joy, is something like the 
thought of such a moment and such a look as that I speak of, 

• when one glances backward, after long years, and wonders 
how near heaven earth has been. 

When she went towards him, and looked up into his face, 
and when they walked away together, there was no thought 
of speech between them. Silence being so full of an inde- 


LEFT ALONE. 


225 


scribable joy, why should they break it ? It was enough that 
they were near each other — that, for the present, there was 
no wide and mournful space between them, full of dim long- 
ings and bitter regrets. To-morrow was afar off, and did not 
concern them. 

“ Did you come to see me ? ” she said, at last, very timidly. 

“No.” 

Another interval of supreme silence, and then he said, 

“ Have you got quite reconciled yet 1 I was afraid of see- 
ing you — of meeting you ; but now it seems as if it were a 
very harmless pleasure. Do you remember the last terrible 
night ? ” 

“There is no use talking of that,” she said; “and yet 
we ought not to meet each other— -except — you know — ” 

“ As friends, of course,” he said, with a smile. “ Well, 
Annie, we sha’n’t be enemies ; but I do think, myself, it were 
rather more prudent, you understand, that we should not see 
each other — ^for along time, at least. Now, tell me, why are 
you not at the theatre ? ” 

“ I have given up the theatre.” 

“ You do not mean to act any more ? ” 

“ No.” 

There suddenly recurred to him Mr. Melton’s significant 
smile, and dead silence fell upon him. If there could be 
anything in the notion that the count — 

Clearly, it was no business of his whether she married the 
count or no. Nay, if it were possible that her marriage with 
the count should blot out certain memories, he ought to have 
been rejoiced at it. And yet a great dread fell upon him 
when he thought of this thing ; and he felt as though the 
trusting little hand which was laid upon his arm had no busi- 
ness there, and was an alien touch. 

“But,” he said, in rather an embarrassed way, “ if you have 
given up the theatre, it must have been for some reason.” 

“For the reason that I could not bear it a moment longer.” 

“ And now — ” 

“ Now I am free.” 

“ Yes, of course, free : but still — what do you propose to 
do.?” 

“ I don’t know yet. I have been looking at some advertise- 
ments — ” 

“ Have you actually no plan whatever before you ? ” he 
said, with surprise— and yet the surprise was not painful. 

Noney 

“Y"hy,” he said, “ we have all of us got -into a nice COU’ 


226 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


dition, just as in a play. I shouldn’t wonder if the next act 
found the whole of us in a garret, in the dead of winter, of 
course.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ My father has lost all his money, and doesn’t know where 
to turn to keep his household alive. I — ” 

Here he stopped. 

“ Ah,” she said, “ and you find yourself unable to help 
them because of your arm.” 

“ That will soon be better,” he said, cheerfully, and we 
will try not to starve. But you — what are you going to do ? 
You do not know people in London ; and you do not know 
the terrible struggle that lies in wait for any unaided girl try- 
ing to make a living.” 

“ So the count says.” 

“ Oh ! you have told the count ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ What did he suggest ? ” 

“ He thinks I ought to marry him,” she said, frankly. 

‘‘ You marry him ? ” 

“ Yes. That was the only way, I dare say, in which he 
thought be could be of service to me. He really is so very 
kind, and thoughtful, and unselfish.” 

“ And you answered — ? ” 

He uttered these words with an air of forced carelessness. 
He wished her to understand that he would be rather glad 
if she thought well of the proposal. For a moment she 
looked at him questioningly, as if to ask whether there was 
honest advice in that tone, and then she said, slowly, 

“ I said neither yes nor no. At the moment I did not know 
what to think. I — I knew that he would be kind to me, and 
that — he knew — that I liked him pretty well — as an acquaint- 
ance — ” 

“ And you have not decided whether you ought to make the 
count happy or no } ” 

The false cheerfulness of his voice did not deceive her. 

“ Yes, I have decided,” she said, in a low voice. 

“ And you will—? ” 

“ Why not be frank with me ? ” she said, passionately, and 
turning to him with imploring eyes. “ Why speak like that? 
Would you not despise me if I married that man ? Would I 
not despise myself? You see I talk to you frankly, for you 
are my friend : I could not marry him — I dare not think of 
my being his wife. I shall never be his wife — I shall never 
be any man’s wife.” 


LEFT ALONE. 


2*7 


“ Annie, be reasonable ! ” 

** Perhaps it is not to you I should say that, and yet I know 
it. I am ashamed of myself when I think that I let him go 
away with the thought that I might accept his offer. But 
then I had not decided — I did not see it properly, not until I 
looked in your face to-night.” 

“ It seems that I must always come between you and hap- 
piness.” 

“ Do you call that happiness ? But I must go back now. 
Poor Lady Jane is rather worse to-day, and I was at the 
chemist’s, with a prescription from the doctor, when I met 
you. I hope we have not done* wrong in speaking to each 
other.” 

So they went back, and he bade her farewell tenderly, and 
yet not so sadly as at their former parting. 

It seemed to him, as he passed away from the door, that 
he heard a faint, sharp cry from inside the house. He took 
no notice of it, however. He was already some distance off 
when he heard swift footsteps behind him, and then the maid- 
servant of the house, breathless and wild-eyed, caught him 
by the arm. 

“ Oh, sir, please come back ! Mrs. Christmas is dead, sir; 
and the young missis is in such a dreadful state ! ” 

He at once hurried back, and found that the terrible intel- 
ligence was too true. Annie Brunei seemed almost to have 
lost her senses, so bitterly did she reproach herself for having 
neglected the bedside of her old friend. 

“ She was well enough, ma’am, when you went out,” the 
servant maintained, consoling her mistress, “ and there was 
nothing you could have done. I was in the room, and she 
asked for those letters as always lies in that drawer, ma’am ; 
and when I took them over to her, she tried to put up her 
hand, and then she sunk back, and in a minute it was all 
over. What could you have done, ma’am ? She couldn’t ha’ 
spoken a word to you.” 

But the girl was inconsolable, and it was past midnight 
when Will left her, having wholly failed in his efforts to soothe 
the bitterness of her grief and desolation. 


22 $ 


IN SILK A TTIR£, 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE COUNT HESITATES. 

When Will returned to the hotel, he found his father wait- 
ing up for him, alone. He was too much overcome by the 
terrible scene he had just witnessed to make any but the 
barest apology for his discourtesy, and even that his father 
interrupted as unnecessary. 

“ I left the theatre early,” he said, gloomily. “ Dove was 
feverish and unwell. I think she must have caught cold when 
coming up with us in the morning. When I got her here, her 
cheeks were flushed and hot, and I saw that she was restless 
and languid by turns — in short, very feverish.” 

“ Did you send for a doctor ? ” 

“ Oh no ; there was nothing one could speak to him about. 
To-morrow morning, if these symptoms are not gone, it might 
be advisable to consult some one.” 

They sat up very late that night discussing their future 
plans. There were but two alternatives before them. It was 
considered possible that with a few thousand pounds Mr. 
Anerley could meet present liabilities, and wait over for the 
time at which it was hoped the affairs of the bank would, 
through the realization of certain securities, be in a fair way 
of recovery. If, on the other hand, this present money was 
not forthcoming, the only course for Mr. Anerley was to re- 
move from St. Mary-Kirby to London, and try to find some 
means of subsistence in the great city. 

“ There is only Hubbard, of all my old acquaintances, in a 
position to help me,” said Mr. Anerley ; “ and he is the last 
whom I should like to ask for any such favor.” 

“ I think you are inclined to misjudge the count, sir,” said 
Will ; “ and in this case you ought at least to see what he 
has to say before impeaching his good feeling. After all, 
you will find a good many men with as much money as the 
count, and as little to spend it on, quite as unwilling to oblige 
an old friend as you half expect him to be.” 

After a good deal of argument, it was arranged that Mr. 
Anerley should see the count on the following morning. 
Will forced him to this decision by a long description of 
what would fall upon the St. Mary-Kirby household in the 
event of his refusal. 

“ What is your pride compared with their wretchedness ? ” 
i j said. 


THE COUNT HESITA TES. 


339 


“My boy,” he replied, “I have no pride, except when I 
have a good gun in my hand and a good dog working bravely 
in front of me. Further, do you know so little of your own 
family as to think that poverty, the nightmare of novelists, 
would be so appalling to them ? ” 

“ Not to them, perhaps ; but to you, looking at them.” 

And that was true of the Chestnut Bank household. Mis- 
fortune was as bitter to them as to any other family ; only 
it was for one another that they grieved. They had been 
educated into a great unselfishness through the constant kindly 
and half-mocking counsel of the head of the house ; but that 
unselfishness only imbittered misfortune. They did not 
brood over their individual mishaps, but they exaggerated 
the possible effects of misfortune on each other, and shared 
this imaginary misery. Mr. Anerley was not much put out 
by the knowledge that henceforth he would scarcely have 
the wherewithal to keep himself decently clothed ; but it was 
only when he thought of Dove being deprived of her port- 
wine, and of Mrs. Anerley being cabined up in London lodgings 
(though these two were as careless of these matters as he 
about his matters), that he vowed he would go and see Count 
Schonstein, and beg him for this present assistance. 

“ As for Dove, poor girl ! ” he said to Will, “ you know what 
riches she prizes. You know what she craves for. A look from 
one she loves is riches to her ; you can make her as wealthy 
as an empress by being kind to her.” 

“ I’m sure no one could ever be unkiqd to said 

Will. 

But the visit to Count Schonstein was postponed next 
morning; for Dove was worse than on the previous night, 
and was fain to remain in bed. Of course a physician was 
called in. He had a long talk with Mr. Anerley, afterward ; 
and perhaps it was his manner, more than anything he actually 
said, that disquieted Dove’s guardian. What he actually did 
say was that the young girl was evidently very delicate^ that 
on her tender constitution this slight febrile attack might 
lead to graver consequences; and that she must at once 
have careful, womanly nursing and country air. Per se, her 
ailment was not of a serious character. 

Mrs. Anerley was at once telegraphed for. Under the cir- 
cumstances, they did not care to remove Dove to St. Mary- 
Kirby, with the chance of her having to return a few days 
afterward to London. 

“ And if I had any misgivings about asking the count to 
lend me the money,’’ said Mr. Anerley, “ I have none now. 


Z10 


JN SILK A TTIRE. 


If country air is necessary to Dove’s health, country air she 
shall have, somehow or other.” 

“ If we cannot manage that, sir,” said Will, “we had better 
go and bury ourselves for a couple of imbeciles.” 

So it was on the next morning that Mr. Anerley went to 
Count Schdnstein’s house in Bayswater. He went early, and 
found that the count had just breakfasted. He was shown 
up to the drawing-room. 

It was a large and handsome apartment, showily and some- 
what tawdrily furnished. A woman’s hand was evidently wanted 
in the place. The pale lavender walls, with their stripes of 
delicately painted panelling, were scratched and smudged 
here and there ; the chintz coverings of the couches and 
chairs were ragged and uneven ; and the gauzy drapery of 
the chandeliers and mirrors was about as thick with dust as 
the ornate books which lay uncovered on the tables. There 
were a hundred other little points which a woman’s eye w'ould 
have detected, but which, on the duller masculine perception, 
only produced a vague feeling of uncomfortable disorder and 
want of cleanliness. 

The count entered in a gorgeously embroidered dressing- 
gown, above the collar of which a black-satin neckerchief 
was tied arond his neck in a series of oily folds. 

“ Good-morning, Anerley,” he said, in his grandest manner 
— so grand, indeed, that his visitor was profoundly surprised. 
Indeed, the count very rarely attempted seigniorial airs with 
his Chestnut Bank neighbor. 

It is unnecessary to repeat the details of a very unpleasant 
interview. Mr. Anerley explained his position ; the count, 
while not actually refusing to lend him the money, took occa- 
sion to betray his resentment against Will. The upshot of it 
was that Mr. Anerley, with some dignity, refused the help 
which the count had scarcely offered, and walked out of the 
house. 

^ I^ was a little angry, doubtless, and there was a contempt- 
uous curl on his lips as he strode down the street ; but these 
feelings soon subsided into a gentler sadness as he thought 
of Dove and the chances of her getting country air. 

He looked up at the large houses on both sides of him, 
and thought how the owners of these houses had only to de- 
cide between one sheltered sea-side village and another, be- 
tween this gentle climate and that gentler one, for pleasure's 
sake ; while he, with the health of his darling in the balance, 
was tied down to the thick and clammy atmosphe re of I he 
streets. And then he thought of how many a tramp, footsore 


THE DECISION, 


2.11 


and sickeningly hungry, must have looked up at Chestnut 
Bank, and wondered why God had given all his good things 
— sweet food, and grateful wine, and warm clothing, and 
pleasant society, and comfortable sleep — to the occupant of 
that pleasant-looking place. It was now his turn to be envious ; 
but it was for Dove alone that he coveted a portion of their 
wealth. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE DECISION. 

Dark as was the night on which Will and Annie Brunei had 
wandered along the lonely pavements of Kensington, they 
had not escaped observation. On whatever errand he was 
bent. Count Schonstein happened to be down in that neigh- 
borhood on this night ; and while these two were so much en- 
gaged in mutual confidences as scarcely to take notice of any 
passer-by, the count had perceived them, and determined to 
watch them. 

This he did during the whole of the time they remained 
outside. What he gathered from his observations was not 
much. At another time he would have paid little attention 
to their walking together for an hour or two ; but that at this 
very time, when she was supposed to be considering whether 
she would become the count’s wife, she should be strolling 
about at night with one who was evidently on very intimate 
terms with her — this awakened the count’s suspicions and 
wrath. But the more he watched, the more he was puzzled. 
They did not bear the demeanor of lovers ; yet what they said 
was evidently of deep interest to them both. There was no 
self-satisfied joy in their faces — rather an anxious and tender 
sadness ; and yet they seemed to find satisfaction in this 
converse, and were evidently in no hurry to return to the 
house. 

Once Miss Brunei had returned to the house, the count 
relinquished further watch. He therefore did not witness 
Will’s recall. But he had seen enough greatly to disquiet 
him ; and as he went homeward, he resolved to have a clear 
understanding with Miss Brunei on the following morning. 
He believed he had granted her sufficient time to make up 
her mind ; and, undoubtedly, when he came to put the ques' 
lion point-blank, he found that her mind was made up. 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


332 

Briefly, she gave him to understand that she never could, 
and that she never would, be his wife. Perhaps she announced 
her determination all the more curtly, in that her sorrow for 
the loss of Mrs. Christmas seemed to render the count’s de- 
mand at such a moment an insult. 

The poor count was in a dreadful way. In this crisis he 
quite forgot all about the reasons which had first induced him 
to cultivate Annie Brunei’s society, and honestly felt that if 
her present decision were persevered in life was of no further 
use or good to him. 

“I am sorry,” she said, “ I have given you pain. But you 
asked me to speak plainly, and I have done so.” 

“ You have so astonished me — ^your tone when we last saw 
each other at least gave me the right to anticipate — ” 

“ There I have to beg for your forgiveness. I was very 
wrong. I did not know my own mind — I could come to no 
decision.” 

“May I venture to ask what enabled you to come to a de- 
cision ? ” 

“ I would rather not answer the question,” she replied, 
coldly. 

“Will you tell me if your mind was made up yesterday 
morning ? ” he asked, insidiously. 

“ It was not. But pray. Count Schbnstein, don’t say any- 
thing more about this at present. Consider the position I 
am in just now — ” 

“ I only wish to have a few words from you for my further 
guidance. Miss Brunei,” he said. “You came to this decis- 
ion last night. Last night you saw Mr. Anerley. Have I 
not a right to ask you if he had anything to do with it } ” 

“ You have no such right,” she said, indignantly. 

“ Then I take your refusal to mean that he had. Are you 
aware that he is engaged to be married ? Do you know 
that he is a beggar, and his father also ? Do you know — ” 

“ I hope I may be allowed to be free from insult in my 
own House,” she said, as she rose and, with a wonderful dig- 
nity, and pride, and grace that abashed and awed him, walked 
out of the room. 

A dim sort of compunction seized him, and he would will- 
ijngly have followed her, and begged her to pardon what he 
had said. Then he, too, felt a little hurt, remembering that 
he was a count, and she an actress. Finally, he quietly 
withdrew, found a servant at the door waiting to let him out, 
and departed from the house with a heavy heart. 

“ A woman’s ‘ no ’ generally means ‘ yes,’ ” he said to him- 


THE DECISION. 


233 


self, disconsolately trying to extract comfort from the old 
proverb. 

He would not despair. Perhaps the time had been inop- 
portune. Perhaps he should have postponed the crisis when 
he learned of Mrs. Christmas’s death. Then he reflected 
that he had been so intent on his own purpose as to forget 
to offer the most ordinary condolences. 

“ That is it,” he said. “ She is offended by my having 
spoken at such a time.” 

The count was a shifty man, and invariably found hope in 
the mere fact of having something to do. There was yet 
opportunity to retrieve his blunder. So he drove to the of- 
fice of Cayley & Hubbard, and found his meek brother sit- 
ting in his room. 

“ I never come to see you except when I am in trouble,” 
said the count, with a grim smile. 

“ I am always glad to see you, Frederick. What is your 
trouble now ? ” 

“ Oh, the old affair. She has left the theatre, as you know ; 
she has lost that old woman ; she is quite alone and penni- 
less ; and, this morning, when I offered to make her my 
wife, she said no.” 

“ What were her reasons } ” 

“A woman never has any. But I think I vexed her in 
making the proposal when the corpse was lying in the next 
room. It was rather rum, wasn’t it ? And then she had been 
crying, and very likely did not wish to be disturbed. How- 
ever, I don’t despair. No. Look at her position. She can'f 
live unless she accepts assistance from me.” 

“ Unless — ” 

Mr. John Hubbard did not complete the sentence, but his 
face twitched more nervously that ever. 

“ Who could tell her ? ” asked the count, angrily. 

“ She may get assistance from those other people — ” 

“ The Anerleys ? ” replied the count, with a splendid laugh. 
“Why, man, every penny of old Anerley’s money is with 
Miall & Welling. Safe-keeping there, eh Bless you, she 
has no alternative — except this, that she’s sure to run off and 
disappear suddenly in some wild attempt at becoming a gov- 
erness. I know she means something that way.” 

“And then you’ll lose sight of her,” said the thin-faced 
brother, peering into the slip of gray sky visible through the 
small and dusty window. 

What his thoughts were at this moment he revealed to his 
wife at night. 


234 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


“ My dear,” he said, in dulcet tones, “ I am afraid my 
brother is a very selfish man, and wants to get this poor girl’s 
money. If she were to become friends with us, we might 
guard her against him. Indeed, it might only be fair to tell 
her what money awaits her, whenever she chooses to take it ; 
and perhaps, you know, Jane, she might give a little present 
to the children, out of gratitude, you know.” 

“ A few thousand pounds would be nothing to her, John,” 
said the wife, thinking of her darling boys. 

“ And Fred’s money he’s sure to keep to himself. He seems 
to have no idea that his family have claims upon him.” 

However, to return to the count, he then proceeded to un- 
fold to his brother the plan he had conceived for the entrap- 
ping of this golden-crested wren which was so likely to fly 
away. 

“ All the little money she^ may have saved will be swallowed 
up in the funeral expenses. After that — what ? Music les- 
sons, or French, or something. Very good. I know she has 
been already watching the advertisements in the Times. 
Now what I want you to do is this — publish an advertisement 
which will attract her attention, and secure her as a governess.” 

The two men had thought of the same thing at the same 
moment, each for his own purpose. But John Hubbard sud- 
denly began to fear that he would be made a cat’s-paw by 
his more favored brother. 

“The name, Frederick, might suggest to her — ” 

“ I don’t think she knows my personal name,” said the count, 
coldly. “ Besides, you would not advertise as Cayley & Hub- 
bard, which might remind her of one resource open to her, and 
you would not advertise as my brother, which would frighten 
her away. Let Jane advertise — she will do it better than either 
of us ; and if it is necessary to get rid of your present govern- 
ess, you can give her some solatium, which I will repay you.” 

This was the advertisement which was finally concocted 
between them : 

“ Wanted, a Governess. Must be thoroughly proficient in 
music and French. One who could assist in arranging private 
theatricals preferred. Apply fi etc., etc. 

It was submitted by Mr. John Hubbard to the inspection of 
his wife ; and the mild, fat, pretty little woman approved of it. 

“ This is how I fancy we might get acquainted wdth her, my 
dear ; and you know Frederick dare not come near the house 
at first, or she would be frightened away at once. Then, you 
know, we could be very kind to her, and make her grateful. 
She ought to be grateful, considering her position.” 


CONFESSION. 


235 


J ane acquiesced, but was not hopeful. She had heard her 
husband frequently speak of the strange things he encount- 
ered in his professional career, but she had never herself seen 
any of them. She did not believe, therefore, that any portion 
of a romance could be enacted in her prosaic house. 

“ It would be very nice,” she said to her husband, “ if it all 
came right, and we were to be friends with such a rich lady ; 
and if she would only give the children something to make 
them independent of their uncle Frederick. I’m not fond of 
money for its own sake ; but for the children, my dear — ” 

“Yes, the children are to be considered,” said John, won- 
dering whether his pretty, placid, good-natured little wife be- 
lieved that he believed that she believed what she said. 

“ I am sure a lady so well-born will be a charming com- 
panion,” said Mrs. John, “whether she has been an actress 
or not.” 

“ And we must change the sherry,” said her husband. 


CHAPTFR XXXII. 

CONFESSION. 

By the time that Mrs. Anerley arrived. Dove was sufficient- 
ly well to suffer removal from the hotel ; and as there was now 
no help for it, the whole family removed to those rooms which 
Will had engaged for them from his landlord. The position 
of affairs had now to be disclosed ; and with all the cheerful- 
ness and mutual consolation they could muster, the prospect 
seemed doleful enough. Every one seemed to be chiefly con- 
cerned for Dove, and Dove was the least concerned of all. 
She put her arm round Mr. Anerley’s neck, as he bent over 
the couch on which she lay, and whispered to him, 

“ You have lost all your shooting, poor papa.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But then you have me. I’m as good as the biggest par- 
tridge you sever saw, am I not ? ” 

“ I think you are, darling.” 

“ And you have lost all your fishing, poor papa.” 

“ Yes, that too.” 

“ But did you ever get a trout to kiss you as I do ? ” 

Which was followed by the usual caress. 

“ And you won’t have such lots of wine ; but you know, 


236 


IN SILK A rriRE. 


papa, how angry you used to be when people did not appre- 
ciate what you thought was good.” 

“ And where is my little Dove to get her port-wine after 
dinner, on Sunday ? ” said he. 

“ You’ll see, papa. Just after dinner, when we’re all sitting 
at the table, and you are looking sadly at the dry walnuts, 
and everybody is thinking about the nice Sundays down in 
the county, you know, there will be a little rustling, and a 
little murmur of music in the air — somewhere near the roof ; 
and all at once two bottles of wine will be hung round your 
neck by the fairies — for it’s only you who care about it, you 
know — and everybody will laugh at you. That is the punish- 
ment for thinking about port-wine. Do I want port-wine ? 
You’re an old cheat, papa, and try to make me believe I am ill 
that you may have your port-wine on Sunday. But I am not, 
and I won’t have any extravagance.” 

He, with a great pain at his heart, saw the forced look of 
cheerfulness on her sweet face, and made some abominable 
vow about selling his mother’s marriage-ring before D< ve 
should want her port-wine. 

Dove was really so well, however, when Mrs. Anerley 
came, that the anxious and tender mamma was almost at a 
loss how to expend the care and sympathy with which she had 
charged herself. It was at this juncture that Will proposed 
that Mr. and Mrs. Anerley should go and see Annie Brunei, 
and give her what comfort and assistance lay in their power ; 
and no sooner were the circumstances of the girl’s position 
mentioned, than both at once, and gladly, consented. 

“ But why not come with us ? ” said his mother. 

“ I would rather you went by yourselves. She will be only 
too grateful if you go to see her. She does not know how to 
manage a funeral. Then she is alone ; you will be able to 
speak to her better than I, and, in any case, I must remain 
with Dove.” 

So they went, and when they were gone. Dove asked him 
to come and seat himself beside her couch. She put out her 
little white hand to him, and he noticed that her eyes were 
singularly large and clear. They were fixed upon him with 
the old tender sadness, and he was forced to think of the time 
when heaven itself seemed open to him in thos^ beautiful, 
transparent depths. But why should they be sad ? He re- 
membered the old delight of them, the mystery of them, the 
kindness of them ; and perhaps he thought that in a little time 
he would be able to awaken the old light in them, and rejoice 


CONFESSION. 


in the gladness, and be honestly, wholly in love with his fu- 
ture wife. 

“ Why didn’t you go with them ? ” she asked. 

“ And leave you alone ? ” 

He could have wished that those eyes were less frank and 
less penetrating. 

“ Sometimes I fancy, Will, that you think me a great baby, 
and that there is no use explaining things to me, and that I 
am only to be petted and treated like a child. And so you 
have always petted me, like the rest, and I liked it very well, 
as you know. But if I am to be your wife. Will, you mustn’t 
treat me as a child any more.” 

“ Would you like to be old and wise and motherly. Dove ? 
How must I treat you ? You know you are only a poor little 
child, my dearest ; but then, when we marry, you will suddenly 
grow very old.” 

There w^as no glad pleasure and hope in his voice, and 
doubtless she caught the tone of his speech, for the large 
eyes were absent and troubled. 

“ You are not frank with me, Will,” she said, in a low voice. 
“ You won’t explain the difference there has been in 3^ou ever 
since you came back from Germany. Ah, such a difference ! ” 
she added, with a sigh, and her eyes were withdrawn from his 
face. “ Perhaps I only imagine it, but everything seems al- 
tered. We are not to each other what we used to be : you 
are kinder than ever, I think, and you want to be what you 
were ; but something has come between us. Will.” 

Every word she uttered lacerated his heart, for how could 
he look upon the patient, kind, sweet face, and tell a lie ? — 
and how dared he tell the truth ? 

“ Come closer. Will. Bend your head down, and I’ll whis- 
per something to you. It is this : Ever since you came back 
from Germany I have been wretched, without knowing why 
Many a time I was going to tell you; then you always looked 
as if you were not as much my friend as you used to be, and 
I dared not do it. You have not been frank with me, and I 
have seen it often and often as I have watched you, and my 
heart used to lie cold and still like lead. And oh. Will, do 
you know what I’ve been thinking.? I’ve been thinking that 
you don’t love me any more ! ” 

She turned away her agonized face from him, and a slight 
shudder ran through her frame. 

“ Dove, listen to me — ” 

“ And if it is true. Will,” she said, with trembling lips, her 
face still being turned from him — “ if it is true, don’t tell me 


23 * 


IN SILK ATTJR£, 


that it is, Will ; how could I bear to hear you say that ? I 
should only wish to die at once, and be out of everybody’s 
way — out of your way too, Will, if I am in the way. I never 
expected to talk like this to you — never, never ; for I used to 
think — down there in St. Mary- Kirby, you know — that you 
could never do anything but love me, and that we should al- 
ways go on the same wherever we were. But things are all, 
changed, Will. It was never the same after you left the last 
time, and since you have come back they have changed more 
and more. And now up here in London, it seems as if all 
the old life were broken away, and we two had only been 
dreaming down there. And I have been sick at heart, and 
wretched ; and when I found myself ill the other day, I wished 
I might die.” 

He had destroyed that beautiful world ; and he knew it, 
although there was no chorus of spirits to sing to him, 

. Weh! weh! 

Du hast sie zerstort. 

Die schone Welt 1 
Mit machtiger Faust; 

Sie stiirzt, sie zerfallt I 
* * * 


Prachtiger 
Baue sie wieder ; 

In deinem Busen baue sie auf 
Neuen Lebenslauf 
Beginne, 

Mit hellem Sinne 
Und neue Lieder 
Tonen darauf 1 " 

Was it possible for him to build it up again, and restore 
the old love and the old confidence t It was not until this 
heart-broken wail was wrung from the poor girl that he fully 
saw the desolation that had fallen upon them. Bitterly he 
accused himself of all that had happened, and vainly he 
looked about for some brief solace he might now offer her. 

“ You don’t say anything,” she murmured, “ because you 
have been always kind to me, and you do not wish to pain 
me. But I know it is true. Will, whether you speak or 
not. Everything is changed now — everything; and — and 
I’ve heard. Will, that when one is heart-broken, one dies.” 

“ If you do not wish to break my heart. Dove, don’t talk 
like that,” he said, beside himself with despair and remorse. 
“ See ; give me your hand, and I’ll tell you all about it. 


CONFESSION, 


Turn your eyes to me, dearest. We are a little changed, I 
know ; but what does it matter ? So soon as ever we can we 
shall marry, Dove, and then the old confidence will come 
back again. I have been away so much from you that we 
have lost our old familiarity ; but when we are married, you 
know — ” 

Then she turned, and the beautiful violet eyes were once 
more reading his face. 

You wish us to be married, Will } ” 

“ My darling, I do ! ’’ he said, eagerly, honestly, joyously ; 
for in the mere thought that thereby he might make some rep- 
aration there lay peace and assurance for the future. “ I 
wish that we could be married to-morrow morning.” 

She pressed his hand, and lay back on the cushion with a 
sigh. There was a pale, wan pleasure in her face, and a 
satisfied languor in her eyes. 

“ I think I shall make a very good wife,” she said, a little 
while after, with the old smile on her face. “ But I shall 
have to be petted, and cared for, and spoiled, just as before. 
I don’t think I should wish to be treated differently if I knew 
you were frank with me, and explained your griefs to me, and 
so on. I wished, darling, to be older, and out of this spoil- 
ing, because I thought you considered me such a baby — ” 

“You will be no longer a baby when you are married. 
Think of yourself as a married woman, Dove — the impor- 
tance you will have, the dignity you will assume. Think of 
yourself presiding over your own tea-table — think of yourself 
choosing a house down near Hastings, and making wonder- 
ful arrangements with the milkman and the butcher ; and 
getting into a terrible rage when they forget your orders, and 
blaming all their negligence on me.” 

“ My dear, I don’t think I shall have anything to do with 
butchers and milkmen.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ Because I don’t think you will ever have any money to 
pay them with.” 

“ So long as I have onb' 
you. Dove, you rr' 

“ I shall 
make me 
drear 
es^ 


2^0 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


SO on, and so on, until we came to the river again, and 
the road, and Balnacluith House, and the deer-park ? How 
pleasant it was, in the summer evenings : but that seems so 
long ago ! ” 

“ How sad you have been the last few days. Dove ! ” 

“ Because I have been thinking. Will. And all that seems 
■a dream, and all that is coming seems a dream, and there is 
nothing real but just now, and then 1 find you and me es- 
tranged from each other. Ah, yes. Will ; you are very kind 
in speaking of our marriage ; but we are not now what we 
were once.” 

“ Dove,” he said, with a desperate effort, “I cannot bear 
this any longer. If you go on moping like this, you will kill 
yourself. It is better you should know all the truth at once : 
you will listen, dearest, and forgive me, and help me to 
make the best we can of the future.” 

There was a quick sparkle of joy in her eyes. 

“ Oh, Will, Will, are you going to tell me all now 9 ” 

“ Yes, dearest.” 

“ Then you needn’t speak a word — not a word — for I 
know you love me, after all. Perhaps not altogether, but 
quite enough to satisfy me, Will ; and I am so glad — so glad 1 ” 
She burst into tears, and hid her face from him. 

He scarcely knew whether grief or joy was the cause of 
this emotion ; but in a minute or two she said, 

“ I am going to whisper something to you. You fell in 
love with Miss Brunei when you were over in Germany, and 
you found it out when it was too late, and you did not know 
what to do. Your kindness brought you back to me, though 
your thoughts were with her. Is it not all true I have been 
telling you ? And I was afraid it would be so always, and 
that you and I were parted forever ; for you- hid the secret 
from me, and dared not tell me. But the moment I saw in 
your eyes that you were going to tell me, I knew some of the 
old love must be there — some of our old confidence ; and 
oh, my darling, I can trust you with my life, and 
you ! ” 

he said — and he 
hed to her — 
for many 
■:t and 
''me 
d 


THE BAIT IS TAKEH. 


a4r 

She fixed her eyes gravely and earnestly upon him. Then 
she lifted his hand to her lips, and — bethinking herself, per- 
haps, of some quaint foreign custom of which she may have 
heard — she kissed it, in token of meek submission and wife- 
ly self-surrender. 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

THE BAIT IS TAKEN. 

Mrs. Anerley felt very nervous in going to visit Miss 
Brunei. She had never seen an actress in private life ; and 
on the stage this particular actress had seemed so grand and 
majestic — so thoroughly out of and beyond the ordinary 
sphere of every-day existence — that she almost feared to ap- 
proach so glorious a creature. She was very particular about 
her dress ; and perhaps she inwardly composed a few phrases 
to break the difficulty of introduction. 

But there was no awkwardness where Mr. Anerley was con- 
cerned. He went forward and took the girl by the hand, 
and told her, in as gentle a way as possible, the object of 
their mission. She was apparently much touched by this 
sign of their thoughtfulness and goodness, and said so briefly. 
Mrs. Anerley forgot all her prepared little speeches. While 
her husband talked to Annie Brunei, she stood and watched 
the strange intensity to the girl’s large dark-gray eyes. There 
was no embarrassment there, and no scanning of the embar- 
rassment of others ; they were too absent, and yet full of a 
strong personal feeling, which showed itself as she accepted 
with great gratitude, Mr. Anerley’s offer. 

“ There is one other thing you ought to do,” he said. 
“ Get away from the house at once.” 

“ If we could only have asked you to come down to our 
house in the country for a few days,” said Mrs. Anerley, in 
her kindly way, “ that would have been the best thing for you 
and a great pleasure to us.” 

“ You would have asked me to visit your home ! ” said the 
young girl, suddenly flashing her clear, honest eyes on Mrs. 
Anerley’s face. 

“ Yes — why not ? ” said Mrs. Anerley, almost in fright, 
fancying she had committed herself. 

“You are very kind indeed,” said Annie Brunei. .“Act- 
resses are not accust;omed to such kindness — especially from 
strangers.” 


JN SILK A TTIRB. 


242 

“ But you mustn’t call us strangers,” said Mr. Anerley, 
good-naturedly. “ We have the pleasure of knowing you very 
well ; and in a few days we hope you will know something of 
us, if we can be of any service to you. To live in this house 
alone, with these sad remembrances, is very unwise, and in 
a day or two you must leave it.” 

“Yes, I must leave it — because I must go where I can 
earn my bread. Has your son told you, sir, that I have left 
the stage ^ So I have ; but at present I have no clear idea 
of what I must do — and yet I must do something.” 

“ I am afraid you have placed yourself in a very perilous 
position,” said Mr. Anerley. 

“ But I got to dislike the stage so much that I had to leave 
it.” 

“ Why you should have left the stage ! ” exclaimed Mrs. 
Anerley, in open admiration, leaving the sentence unfinished. 

Annie Brunei looked at her for a moment, and said, slowly, 

“ I have been very fortunate in giving you a good impress 
sion of myself. I thought most ladies outside the theatre 
looked down upon us theatre-folk ; and I was afraid you had 
come here only at your son’s solicitation, with a sort of — ” 

“ Ah, don’t say any more,” said Mrs. Anerley, with a gen- 
uine pain on her face. “ It is not right to judge of people 
like that. I wish I could only show you what Dove and I 
would like to do in taking you among us, and making you 
comfortable, until you should forget this sad blow/’ 

“ As for /ler” said Miss Brunei, with a smile, “ I knew she 
was too gentle and good to despise any one the moment I 
saw her. But she was so much sweeter and truer than ordi- 
nary women that I accounted for it on that ground ; and I 
grew so fond of her in a few minutes ! And you, too — what 
can I offer you for your goodness to me but my gratitude and 
my love ? ” 

“ My poor girl ! ” said Mrs. Anerley, with a touch of moist- 
ure in the corner of her eyes, “ I hope we may have some 
opportunity of proving to you what we think of you.” 

Mr. Anerley found that Will had explained to Miss Brunei 
the circumstances in which the family were now placed ; so 
that he was relieved from the embarrassment of saying that 
whatever aid he might give her would not be pecuniary aid. 
But he had not much experience yet of the girl to whom he 
was speaking — of the quaint plainness aad directness of her 
speech, the very antithesis of the style and manner which 
Mrs. Anerley had expected to meet. 

Annie Brunei told him what small savings she possessed. 


THE BAIT IS TAKEN. 




and asked him if these could be made to cover all the ex- 
penses of the funeral, so that she might start on her new 
career unencumbered with debt. He thought it might be done, 
and he at once assumed the management of the sad details of 
the business before them. 

“ But then,” she said, “ I have the servant to pay ; and I 
don’t know what arrangement I may be able to make with 
the landlord of the house. Hitherto he has been very oblig- 

“ That, also, I will look after,” said Mr. Anerley, “if you 
can put confidencehn a man who has so successfully managed 
his own affairs as to bring his whole family into poverty.” 

“ And I — can I do nothing for you ? ” said Mrs. Anerley. 
“ We who are all suffering from some kind of trouble should 
be glad to accept help from each other. Now, tell me — the 
clothes you may want — what have you done } ” 

“ I had just begun to look over some things when you came 
in.” 

“ Shall I stay and help you until dinner-time ? Do let me.” 

And so, while Mr. Anerley went off to see the landlord, 
Mrs. Anerley stayed behind and lent her assistance to that 
work in which the feminine heart, even when overshadowed 
by a funeral, finds consolation and delight. And she after- 
ward declared that she had never worked with a pleasanter 
companion than this patient, self-possessed, and cheerful girl, 
whose queenly gestures, and rich voice, and dark, clear face 
had so entranced and awed her when Juliet came upon the 
stage. 

The two women became confidential with each other in the 
most natural and easy way. Mrs. Anerley entirely forgot the 
actress, and became wonderfully fond of and familiar with 
this quaint-mannered girl, with the splendid hair and the 
honest eyes. 

“ For my own part,” she said to her, “ I am not at all sorry 
that my husband has lost this money, if it were not likely to 
affect Dove’s comfort. You know he is such a very good 
man, and the very kindest and best husband a woman could 
wish to have ; but I cannot tell you how it troubles me some- 
times to think that be is not of the same religious opinions as 
the rest of us. That is the only thing; and I am sure it has 
been brought on by being too well off, and having nothing to 
do but read and speculate. He has never been put in a posi- 
tion requiring that aid and comfort we get from religious 
service ; and it is only carelessness, I am convinced, has led 
him away,” 


244 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


“And now you think this misfortune — ” 

“ Not the misfortune altogether, but the rougher fight he 
will have with the world. He will be glad to have that sense 
of peace and rest with which people sit together in church, 
and forget their every-day troubles. If it will only do that 
for him — if it will only bring him back to us — I shall be glad 
that we have lost every penny we had in the world. It has 
been my trouble for years to think of his perilous state.’’ 

“ He does not look like a man who would believe anything 
dangerous.” 

“ I hope not — I hope not,” said the tender wife ; “ I hope 
it is not dangerous. And yet I shall never feel that he As 
safe until he returns to the old faith and opinions he had 
when I first knew him. Even then, when a very young man, 
I was never sure of him. But he was always so respectful to 
every kind of religion, whether he believed in it or not, that 
I — yes, I — took him on trust.” 

“ You do not seem to have regretted your choice,” said 
Annie Brunei. 

“ No,” she said, with a pleased and proud smile. “ You 
won’t find many people live more comfortably than we. But 
there is that one thing, you see — ” 

“ And your son — does he go with his father in these 
things ? ” 

“ I don’t think so. I hope not. But both of them are 
such good men that I can’t make up my mind to go and 
speak to them as if — as if they were sinners, you know.” 

A perplexed, humorous smile came over her face ; and yet 
Annie saw that her friend was very much in earnest over this 
matter. It was the one bitter thing in this good woman’s 
contented and peaceful lot. 

After that interview Mrs. Anerley spent the better part of 
each day with her new protkg^e; and a wonderful love grew 
up between the two women — motherly and tender on the one 
side, trusting and childlike on the other. And for the first 
day or two Mr. Anerley paid far more attention to Annie 
Brunei’s affairs than he did to his own, until Mrs. Christmas 
was hidden away from a world that had perhaps not been 
over-kind to her, and until the young girl was ready to go 
forth and seek her own existence. Will, during this time, 
never came near. He was trying to repair the beautiful 
world that he had shattered, and he kept faithfully to the 
task. 

Finally, there came the question as to how Annie Brunei 
was to earn a living, and the Times was again called int ) 


THE BAIT IS TAKEN, 


245 


requisition. Many a weary hour did Mrs. Anerley and her 
charge spend in reading through the advertisements, and 
writing letters in reply to those which seemed most suitable. 
No answer came to any one of these applications. For some 
reason or other, they had not thought it worth while to reply 
to the advertisement about music, French, and private the- 
atricals ; but at last the pertinacity with which the lines ap- 
peared in the newspaper drew discussion down upon them. 

“ If I were to be asked how I became proficient in theatri- 
cals, I should have to say I was on the stage ; and I don’t 
wish to do that.” 

“ Why, dear?” 

“ Because the people might say they did not wish to have 
an actress in the house, and I want to avoid the insult.” 

“ My dear, you have the absurdest notions. If they had 
seen you on the stage, they will be all the more delighted to 
have you. It was because you were an actress, I firmly 
believe, that I came to see you ; and in a few days I have 
made a daughter of you.” 

“ Nobody seems inclined to answer my letters,” said the 
girl, ruefully. 

“ You may wait and wait for months,” said Mrs. Anerley. 
“ Add this one to the number, and tell them who you are. 
But you must tell them that you only want a small salary, or 
they will never think of engaging you.” 

“ So the letter was written in accordance with these sug- 
gestions, and posted with several others. By that night’s 
post — and the exceeding swiftness of the response might have 
provoked some suspicion in less unworldly minds — there came 
a letter. Annie Brunei was alone. She saw by the unknown 
handwriting that the letter was likely to be a reply to one of 
her applications ; and for a minute or two she allowed the 
envelope to remain unopened, while she wondered what sort 
of destiny lay folded within it. 

These were the words she read : 

“ Rose Villa, Haverstock Hill, October 29th, 18 — . 

“Mrs. John Hubbard presents compliments to Miss Bru- 
nei ; is exceedingly obliged by the offer of her valuable assist- 
ance ; and would Miss Brunei be good enough to call, at her 
convenience, any forenoon between ten and two ? Mrs. Hub- 
bard hopes that if Miss Brunei can be induced to accept the 
situation which lies at her disposal, nothing will be wanting 
to render her position in the house more that of a friend than 
an instructress. Mrs. Hubbard hopes her proposal, when 


246 


m SILK ATTIRE, 


properly explained to Miss Brunei, will meet with Miss Bru- 
nei’s favorable consideration.” 

This to a governess ! The girl scarcely knew how to regard 
the letter — so familiar, so respectful, so anxious. 

“ Here is another person who does not object to my being 
an actress. And I am to be her friend ! ” 

She came to the conclusion that a lady who could so write 
to a perfect stranger must either be mad, or have an idea that, 
in asking Annie fcunel to her house, it was Juliet or Rosa- 
lind who might be expected to come. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE NEW GOVERNESS. 

It was a cold, wet day, in the beginning of November, when 
Annie Brunei got out of the Hampstead ’bus, and found her- 
self in the muddy highway of Haverstock Hill : a wet and 
cheerless day, with a damp and cutting wind, and a perpetu- 
al drizzling rain, that made the black stems of the leafless 
trees glisten and drip — a day to make the people who passed 
e^ch other in the street, vainly muffled up against the wet 
and the keen cold, hate each other with a vague and gratui- 
tous hatred. There was scarcely a traveller on foot who did 
not regard all others in a similar plight as somehow responsi- 
ble from the contrariety of the elements. 

“ What a pity you should have come to-day ! cried Mrs. 
John Hubbard, as she came into the hall to receive her vis- 
itor. “I would rather you had broken a dozen appoint- 
ments. I hope you are not wet — I hope you are not cold. 
Come into the drawing-room at once ; there is a nice warm 
fire to bring the blood to your fingers again.” 

During this speech Annie Brunei had time to examine her 
future mistress. She was not obviously mad. Indeed, the 
coal-black hair, the rosy cheeks, the small and pretty mouth, 
the neat figure and small hands, were the natural ornaments 
of a person who seemed mentally far too colorless and con- 
tented ever to be troubled by intellectual derangement. Yet 
the new governess was as much puzzled by her reception as 
by the letter she had received. 

“There now, take this easy-chair — let me draw it in for you 
— and we shall have a chat over the matter. I have hitherto 


THE NEW GOVERNESS, 


247 


only had a morning governess, you know : the poor girl took 
unwell some time ago, and she has not been here for some 
days now.” 

At this precise moment Miss Betham was up-stairs, packing 
her music and preparing for final departure. But to the good 
natured and mentally limp Mrs. Hubbard lying came as easily 
as telling the truth. She would not have told a lie to secure 
a particular end, but in the course of conversation she did 
not seem to recognize the necessity of being exact in her 
statements. She lied broadly and often, but she lied harm- 
lessly — at least, she meant to do no harm by her lying. 

I won’t ask you any questions. Miss Brunei — not one. 
You have your own reasons for leaving the stage ; and I’m 
not going to quarrel with what enables me to have your assist- 
ance (if we can make arrangements, that is), which I don’t 
doubt for a moment.” 

“ I am quite inexperienced, as I told you in my letter.” 

“ Oh, that does not signify,” said the other, affably. 

Annie Brunei looked up with a glance of astonishment, 
which any woman not a fool would have noticed. 

“ And if you think that I know enough to attempt to get 
into the way of teaching, I shall leave all the other arrange- 
ments to you. I am not anxious about the salary you may 
be inclined to give me ; because, after all, it is only a trial. 
And if you think I am worth to you, in the mean time, so 
much per week as will keep me in food and pay my lodg- 
ings — ” > 

“ Your lodgings ! I could not think of submitting you to 
the misery of lodging so long as I have a comfortable room 
to offer you.” 

Mrs. Hubbard did not look like a practical joker; but her 
reception of the new governess looked uncommonly like a 
practical joke. 

“ You are very kind,” said Annie, the wide eyes being a 
little wider than usual ; “ but I thought it was as a day-gover- 
ness — ” 

“ To be sure, we have always had a day-governess. But 
in your case I should prefer a resident governess, especially 
if you are about to leave your home and take lodgings.” 

“ I meant to take lodgings somewhere near you, if I had 
the good-fortune to please you.” 

“ In this neighborhood you couldn’t get lodgings ; and if 
you go down to Camden Town, or over to Kentish Town — 
oh, my dear, I couldn’t think of it! My husband is very 
particular about everybody connected with us being treated 


JN SILK A T'riRE. 


34S 

fairly — like one of ourselves, you understand ; and as soon as 
he heard of your being inclined to answer the advertisement, 
he said, ‘ I hope Miss Brunei will find a comfortable home 
here/ ” 

This was another lie : indeed, what little intellect the poor 
woman had chiefly took the form of invention. 

“ I am not anxious to go into lodgings,” said Annie Bru- 
nei, with a smile, “ as I had a good deal of experience of 
them at one time.” 

“ Shall we consider it settled, then .f* ” 

“ But you do not know whether I am fit for the duties you 
require.” 

“ What an objection ! I know you are.” 

“ Then, as to terms — ” 

“ We sha’n’t quarrel about terms. Come and stay with us 
as soon as you can, and.we’ll make everything comfortable and 
agreeable for you, and we’ll settle about terms afterward. 
Then, you know, we shall have private theatricals to amuse 
you.” 

In certain stories, and in not a few dramas, Annie Brunei 
had seen a perfect stranger suddenly determine to play the 
part of a special Providence towards the heroine ; but she 
was lost ‘in astonishment to meet that incomprehensible 
friend in real life. Here she was, however ; and when it is 
manna that the clouds rain, there is little reason in putting 
up an umbrella. 

Mrs. Hubbard rung the bell, and sent a servant for the 
children. They came trooping down to the drawing-room, 
pushing each other, and looking very shy and a trifle sulky. 

“ This is the lady who will help you with your lessons now, 
my dears, since Miss Betham has gone.” 

“ Miss Betham hasn’t gone — she is up-stairs yet,” said 
Master Alexander, “ and she has just told Kate to fetch her 
her sherry.” 

“ Ah ! come to look after some music she has left behind, 
perhaps,” said Mrs. Hubbard, with a significant nod to 
Annie. 

“You will find the children very obedient,” she continued, 
“ and nothing shall be wanting to add* to your comfort. 
May we conclude the bargain to be settled ? ” 

“ Certainly, so far as I am concerned,” said the girl. 

These were the agreeable tidings which awaited Mr. John 
Hubbard when he returned home that night. 

“ She is such a charming person ! ” said his wife ; “ I don’t 
wonder at your brother being fond of her.” 


ANOTHER BLUNDER. 349 

“ He is fond of her money,” said John Hubbard, gloomily, 
“ and fancies himself sure of it i\ow.” 

“ It would be very wicked to take advantage of the girl's 
innocence in any way,” said Mrs. Hubbard, a proposition to 
which her husband assented. 

“ But if we can touch her gratitude^ my dear,” said he, 
“ there is no saying, as I told you before, what might happen.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

ANOTHER BLUNDER. 

The old year died out ; the new one came in — not attended 
with any very bright auspices for the persons concerned in 
this story. John Hubbard was, perhaps, the only one of them 
who was pleased with present events, and hopeful for the fu- 
ture. During many a secret conclave with his good-natured, 
pretty, limp, and lying little wife, he speculated on what shape 
his governess’s gratitude would ultimately assume. 

Mr. Anerley had not succeeded in getting any employment. 
Several times he was offered certain situations, and he was on 
the point of accepting, when his son peremptorily forbade any 
such notion. 

“ If you can get proper employment, and proper remuner- 
ation,” said Will, “ well and good ; if not, the pound or two 
you would get would not compensate for the trouble and igno- 
miny of such a position.” 

Will’s voice in the matter was powerful, for he was support- 
ing the household with such exertions as he was yet permitted 
to make. The old man did not think of trouble or ignominy. 
He thought only of Dove, and the numerous little luxuries to 
which she was accustomed. Nor dared he speak of this, ex- 
cept to his wife ; for both saw the perpetual endeavors that 
Will was making for all of them. Sometimes the old man dis- 
trusted the audacious cheerfulness with which Will insisted 
on his mother and Dove having this or that particular luxury ; 
and once he made a discovery that led him to think retrospect- 
ively of many things. 

Down in St. Mary-Kirby there was no home entertainment 
which afforded Dove so much pleasure as having red mullet 
and Champagne for supper ; and the disgraceful little epicure 
picked so daintily her tiny morsel of fish, and sipped so quaint- 
ly, with coquettish eyes thrown at her father, her glass of wine, 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


that to the other people the feast was much more aesthetic 
then sensuous. 

“ Mother,” said Will, one evening, when he came home 
(but his words were directed to Dove), we haven’t had red 
mullet for supper for a long time. I’ve brought home some ; 
and I’ve brought home a small case of Champagne for the 
especial use of people who behave themselves.” 

“ Oh, Will ! ” said the mother, “ what extravagance 1 ” 

“ The boy’s mad ! ” said the father. 

“ Do you hear them. Dove ? Now they have misconducted 
themselves, you and I shall have all the Champagne to our- 
selves.” 

What a merry little party it was, that evening ! The land- 
lord of the house lent them the proper wineglasses ; Dove 
went and put on part of the blue pearl head-dress the count 
had given her, to make believe she had been at the theatre ; 
and when they sat down at the bright white cloth, with every- 
thing on the table as brilliant and clean as fingers could make 
it, it was quite like old times. 

“ Now, Will,” said Mr. Anerley, “ let’s see what you’ve 
brought. Mind you, my taste isn’t dulled by want of exer- 
cise.” 

“ I didn’t consider your taste a bit, sir. I got the wine for 
Dove, and it is as sweet as — ” 

“ Herself ! These young people are too bashful to pay com- 
pliments nowadays. Ah, Dove, don’t these bits of blue paper 
hold wonders within them — the treasures of the deep — the 
only fish worth calling a fish — and every one of them with a 
diamond-ring in its mouth .? Here, Will, give me your ring, 
that I may see how it looks on the nose of this famous fellow 
which I mean to give to Dove.” 

The young man darted a hasty, deprecating look towards 
his father, and the blood rushed over his face. The father 
caught that swift look, and glanced at the finger on which 
Will generally wore this ring — one he had brought from Tur- 
key. There was no ring there ; it had been there that morn- 
in 



'Mr. Anerley did not enjoy the supper. Sometimes the fish 
seemed to stick in his throat, and the wine had a bitter flavor. 

But he did not spoil the enjoyment of the others ; and 
Dove’s delight at recalling one of the old by-gone evenings 
was immense. She persisted in making believe that they had 
been to the theatre, and criticised the actors gravely and se- 
verely. She pecked at her little piece of fish like a thrush 
at a ripe cherry ; and she wore on her pretty, small, blue- 


ANOTHER BLUNDER. 


veined wrist a wonderful bracelet that Will had brought her 
from abroad. 

“ Shall I kiss the goblet for you, Sir Knight ? ” she said, 
taking a little sip out of Will’s glass. 

“ And yours, venerable sir ? ” 

“ It seems to me,” said Mr. Anerley, “ that the old custom 
was a system of levying blackmail on all the wineglasses 
round. Still, I will pay the price. * * * Well, now, it isn’t 
bad wine ; but the bouquet is clearly owing to you. Dove.” 

“ I didn’t like the lover to-night,” said Dove, critically. 
“ He seemed as if his clothes were quite new. I can’t bear a 
lover coming with new clothes, and trying to make an effect. 
A lover should forget his tailor when he is in love. And I 
am against people being married in new clothes, with bride’s- 
maids in new clothes, and everbody in new clothes, and every- 
body feeling cramped, and stiff, and embarrassed. When I 
marry, I shall have my husband wear the old, old suit in 
which I used to see him come home from his work, the clothes 
which I’ve got to love about as much as himselh I sha’n’t 
have the tailor come between him and me.” 

“ The heroine was rather pretty,” hazarded Will, concern- 
ing the imaginary play. 

“ Well, yes. But she made love to us, and not to him. 
And I can’t bear kissing on the stage — before such a lot of 
people : why don’t they do all that before they come on the 
stage, and then appear as engaged or married } ” 

“ But you would have to employ a chorus to come and ex- 
plain to the audience what was going on in the ‘wings,’ ” said 
Will. 

And so they chatted, and gossiped, and laughed, and it 
seemed as if they were again down in the old and happy Kent- 
ish valley. 

When they had retired for the night, Mr. Anerley told his 
wife his suspicions about the ring. 

“ I was afraid he had done something like that,” she said. 
“ But who could regret it, seeing Dove so delighted ? I hope 
he won’t do it again, however. I should tell him of it, but 
that I know he will be vexed if we mention it.” 

By common consent the case of Champagne was relegated 
to the grand occasions of the future. The family was not in 
a position to pay a wine-merchant’s bill ; and so they remained 
contented with the knowledge that orAny sudden prompting 
they had it in their power to become extravagant and luxu- 
rious. 

Then Dove was better, so far as they could see ; and the\ 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


2S« 

bore their little hardships with wonderful equanimity. She 
was better, doubtless, but she was ^^ery delicate ; and the doc- 
tor had had a long and serious conversation with Mr. Aner- 
ley, in which he was advised to take Dove to spend the rest 
of the winter in Italy. Sirius was quite as possible a desti- 
nation. 

By this time Annie Brunei had become familiar with the 
Hubbard family, and had definitely entered upon her new du- 
ties. The longer she stayed in the house, the more she was 
puzzled by the consideration with which every one, except 
her pupils, treated her ; and even they were impertinent not 
through intention, but by habit. Mrs. Hubbard was almost 
obtrusively affectionate towards her governess. Everything 
was done to make her residence in the house agreeable. She 
lunched and dined with Mrs. Hubbard, so that poor Miss 
Bethara’s sherry was never called into requisition. When 
there was a dinner-party or a dance in the house, Annie Bru- 
nei was invited as a guest, introduced to visitors as a guest, 
treated with all the courtesy due to a guest. She was never 
asked to sing by the Hubbards ; although she played and 
sung enough at the solicitation of other people. The chil- 
dren were taught to consider her, not as a governess, but as 
a friend of their mamma’s. When there were people at the 
house, they were obliged to treat her as a gracious and dis- 
tinguished lady who h'ad come to spend the evening, not as a 
poor governess expected to find correct accompaniments for 
people who gratuitously changed the key three or four times 
in the course of a song. 

As a governess, she ought to have been very grateful for 
such treatment. Yet she felt far from happy or contented. 
She did not like the pale, round-shouldered, nervous man who 
never looked one in the face. Despite the gratitude she 
could not but feel towards Mrs. Hubbard, she did not admire 
or love much that lady, whose unnecessary mendacity she 
had once or twice discovered. Here, however, was a home. 
Outside, the cold elements, the chiller hearts of strangers, the 
vicissitudes, trials, struggles, martyrdom of a fight for life ; 
inside, warmth and comfort, apparently true friends, and easy 
duties. She tried to be grateful for all these things ; and 
when moods of lonely despair and melancholy overwhelmed 
her, she upbraided her own weakness, and resolved to be 
more thankful in the future. 

The count had not ventured to go near her. He w'as satis- 
fied to know that she was in safe-keeping. He could bide 
his time. He had made one blunder ; he would not again 


ANOTHER BLUNDER. 


253 


commit the mistake of forcing marital concerns upon her 
while she was moved by grief for the loss of an old friend. 
He allowed the slow passing days and weeks to work for him, 
trusting that in time he would only have to step in and reap 
the rich harvest his prudence had prepared. 

But he called frequently at the office of his brother, to re- 
ceive reports. And the tone of the count, on one or two oc- 
casions, was sufficient to stir up a mild remonstrance from 
even that patient and much-enduring person. 

“ You talk to me as if you had paid me to engage her and 
keep her in the house for you.’^ 

“ Did you engage her for yourself ? You know I suggested 
the thing to you ; and am prepared to reimburse you for any 
extra expense you may have been put to.’’ 

“ I declare,” said the milder brother, “ you talk as if you 
were fattening a pig, and I was watching^ the yard. You come 
and look over the palings, and gloat over your future satis- 
faction, and compliment me if the prospect is pleasing to you. 
Mind you, I don’t think you have any supreme claim on the 
girl.” 

4 “ Have you ? ” 

“ Certainly not. ” 

“Well, what’s the use of talking nonsense. Jack? If 1 
marry her, it will be as good for you as for me.” 

“ How ?” said the lawyer, coldly, and with affected care- 
lessness. 

“ Well,” replied the count, with some embarrassment, 
“ there’s the money, you see, coming into the family. That’s 
a great matter.” 

“ Yes, to you” said John Hubbard. 

The count looked 'at him for a moment ; perhaps a thought 
struck him just then that, after all, his brother might be sin- 
cere in his view of the matter, and might testify his sincerity 
by carrying off the prize for himself. 

“Gad, he can’t do that very well,” said the count to him- 
self, with a merry laugh, when he came to reflect on the con- 
versation, “or what would Jane say? The girl is useless to 
him, so what’s the use of his talking nonsense ? Her money 
is safe from him, if safe from anybody.” 

But the more the count thought over the affair, the less did 
he like the tone that his brother had lately assumed in talk- 
ing of Annie Brunei. Further, he would have been as well 
pleased had he known that Miss Brunei was not quite so 
comfortable in his brother’s- house. 

These things were the ^1 --t 


IN SILK A rriRE. 


254 

culation on his part. They were also the theme of his after- 
dinner musings. Now, after-dinner dreams and resolves are 
very beautiful at times ; but they should never be put down 
on paper. In an evil hour — it was one evening after he had 
dined, all by himself, in that great house down in Kent — he 
placed the following words in a letter to his brother : 

“ Balnaduith House, near St Mary-Kirby, 
“January, 17th, 18 — . 

“ Dear John,— Let me add a word to what I recently said 
about Miss Brunei. It is your interest to forward my interest, 
as you will discover. Now, I am afraid you are treating her 
with so much mistaken kindness that she will get to consider 
the position of governess pleasant. This is misleading her. 
She will only suffer for it afterward. Nothing like whole- 
some ,, severity at the time — nothing. Hubert Anerley came 
to me and asked me to lend him some money, and let him 
off a bargain about my brougham and a pair of horses. Did 
I ? I knew it would only delude him with absurd hopes, and 
I said no ; and so he accepted his fate, and I suppose has 
set about repairing a fortune lost by his own carelessness 
That’s my way. Jack ; and you’re too kind to the girl. Get 
Jane to try some wholesome severity — to teach her what a 
governess is ; frighten her — threaten to turn her out without 
a character, or something of the sort. Anything, so she is 
made to understand how insecure her position is. You un- 
derstand ? Then I step in, and our family becomes one of 
the richest in England. What do you say to that ? Do it 
at once — and firmly. It will be better to be done decisively 
— very decisively — and soon. Your affectionate brother, 

“ Fred. V. Sch 5 nstein.” 

Frederick Von Schbnstein should have seen his brother’s 
face when that letter arrived. It was not an expressive face ; 
but on this occasion there were several emotions clearly visible 
in it, and they were not of a mournful kind. Indeed, John 
Hubbard looked upon this letter as worth thousands of 
pounds to him. It was the key of the position. He showed 
it to his wife. 

^ “ What a brute,” she said, “ to think of harming the poor 
girl ! I have never liked your brother, my dear, since he 
began to try to entrap this girl, but now I am beginning to 
hate him.” 

And doubtless Mrs. Hubbard imagined, quite honestly, 
tNof lU wQc mprf»lv romnassion for her charming and unpro- 


ANOTHER BLUNDER. 


tected governess which provoked he^- mild wra?th and con 
tempt. 

“ Fred’s a fool, my dear, or he wouldn’t have written that 
letter.” 

« Why .? ” 

“ Don’t you see ? ” observed the husband, proud of his 
superior masculine perspicacity ; “ whenever he seeks to in- 
terfere with her, or with our relations towards her, we have 
only to show her this letter, and I think that will consider- 
ably cook his goose.” 

It was not often that the meek and proper brother of the 
count was tempted into slang ; but on this great occasion, 
when a lucky chance had delivered everything into his hands, 
he could not forbear. 

Count Schonstein never waited for that course of severity 
which was to render Annie Brunei an easy capture. His 
solitary life at Balnacluith House was becoming more and 
more unbearable ; and so, at length, he resolved to precipi- 
tate matters. 

One forenoon, when he knew his brother would be out, he 
went up to Haverstock Hill. His sister-in-law was a little 
frightened by his appearance. She so far knew her own na- 
ture as to be aware that the count had only to command and 
she would obey. How she wished that her husband were at 
home ? 

The count was gracious, but firm. He begged her to 
grant him an interview with Miss Brunei, in tones which ex- 
pressed his resolution to obtain the interview, whether his 
gentle sister-in-law agreed or not. For a moment a lie hov- 
ered on her lips ; but probably she knew it would be of no 
avail, and so she only ventured on a remonstrance. 

“If you do this now,” said Mrs. John, “you will terrify 
her. She is not prepared. She does not know you are con- 
nected with us — ” 

“ I can explain all these matters,” said the count, peremp- 
torily. 

“ Very well,” said his sister-in-law, meekly. 

In a minute afterward Annie Brunei entered the room. 
No sooner did she see who the visitor was, than a surprised, 
pleased light came into her eyes, and the heart of the count 
leaped for joy. How beautiful she was to him then ! The 
big bright eyes, the delicately rounded chin, the pretty mouth, 
the fine Southern languor and grace and softness of her face 
and figure — and the cold, cheerless, empty desolation of Bal- 
nacluith Honse ! 


256 


TN SILK ATTIRE. 


She shook hands with him. 

“ How did you discover me here ? ” 

“Don’t you know?” he asked. “Don’t you know that 
Mrs. Hubbard is my sister-in-law — that her husband is my 
brother : have they never spoken of me ? ” 

In an instant the whole thing was laid bare to her. She un- 
derstood now the extraordinary courtesy of her mistress ; she 
understood now the references made by the children to the 
deer that their uncle Frederick kept ; and the advertisement 
— she saw that that was a trap. The discoveiy shocked her 
a little, but it also nerved her. She knew she had been de- 
ceived ; she was yet unaware of any purpose that the decep- 
tion ’could serve ; but she confronted the count with an in- 
trepid spirit, and looked him in the face. 

That look terrified him. “ Have I,” he thought, “ made 
another blunder ! ” 

The next moment found him entering on a long series of 
explanations, entreaties, and superfluous assertions. It had 
all been done honestly. They were afraid she would be 
homeless. They had advertised out of friendly intention — 
in perfect good faith. He had refrained from visiting the 
house, lest she should consider herself persecuted. The 
Hubbards had not mentioned his name, fearing that even 
that might frighten her. 

For a minute or two these rapid revelations and confes- 
sions somewhat confused her. But out of the blundering 
representations of the count arose certain facts strong and 
clear as the daylight. 

“ That advertisement was a trap ? ” she said, fixing -her 
large honest eyes upon him. 

“ But, you see — ” 

“ And they have been treating me kindly, and deceiving 
me at the same time, that you might come — ? ” 

“Don’t say that,” said the count, deprecatingly. “They 
deceived you with the best intentions towards yourself. And 
have I not the same intentions ? Look at your position — a 
governess, dependent on other people for your bread, liable 
to be out of a situation and starving at any moment, bound 
down to certain duties every day, and living a solitary, monot- 
onous life. Then look at what you would be if you would 
only listen to me ; you would have nothing to do but enjoy 
yourself from January to December — you would have every- 
thing at your command — ” 

“ I think I have heard quite enough. Count Schonstein,” 


AN OLD ADMIRRR. 


257 


she said, firmly. “And you would have spared both of us 
some pain if you had taken the answer I gave you before.” 

“ And that is your only answer ? ” 

“ It is.” 

“ How can you be so cruel — so unreasonable ? What do 
you mean to do ? ” 

“ I mean to leave this house.” 

“Why?” he said, struck with astonishment. 

“ You need not ask me why. You have been a good friend 
to me, and I do not wish to part from you in anger. You 
have been kind to me. I am sorry it is impossible for me to 
ask you to see me again. I do not wish to see you again, 
or Mr. or Mrs. Hubbard, after what you have just told me.” 

She left the room, and the count sat staring blindly before 
him, remotely conscious that something terrible had befallen 
him. The next thing he saw was Annie Brunei entering the 
drawing-room, followed by Mrs. John. The younger lady 
was dressed in black, and had now her bonnet and shawl on. 

“ Dear me ! ” said Mrs. Hubbard. “ You astonish me. De- 
ceive you ? Never such a thought entered my head. And 
as for that advertisement, it was no trap at all, but addressed 
to all governesses. Of course we knew that you might see 
it, and we were very glad when you did see it; but that we 
intentionally deceived you, I appeal to Count Schonstein, Miss 
Brunei.” 

“ What I know of these matters, Mrs. Hubbard, I have 
just learned from Count Schonstein,” she said, coldly. “ I 
don’t accuse any one. Perhaps you did nothing unusual. 
I don’t know anything about the customs among ladies. I 
have been brought up among another kind of people. Good- 
morning.” 

There was no resentment on the calm and beautiful face, 
nor the least touch of sarcasm in the low, soft voice. There 
was sadness, however — a resigned, patient sadness, that 
smote the heart of both her auditors, and kept them silent 
there, while she went outside — into London, alone. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

AN OLD ADMIRER. 

Nelly Featherstone was busy that night. The small 
room in which she sat working was littered with all sorts of 


258 


IN SILK A TTIKE. 


beautiful dress-making materials ; and Nelly herself was 
diligently engaged — sewing heavy golden fringe upon a resplen- 
dent Venetian doublet of green satin, which had glimmerings 
of white and crimson silk across the chest, and white-satin 
sleeves, tightened and crisped with gold. Indeed, the sheen 
of satin and glitter of gold lay all over the dingy little room. 
These were the raw material of the new grand burlesque ; 
and Nelly, who made all her dresses herself, was famous for 
the historical accuracy of her costume. On this occasion, 
however, there was a green-satin Glengarry lying on a chair, 
and green-satin boots, with the heels not much bigger than 
a fourpenny-piece, on the table ; and she wore on her fingers, 
to try their lustre, two large rings of cut-glass — the one a 
shining emerald, the other a brilliant crimson. 

When Annie Brunei tapped at the door and stepped in, 
Nelly threw all these things aside, and rushed to her old 
friend, and hugged and kissed her in her usual impulsive 
manner, with a dozen “ my dears ” to every sentence. Her 
friend’s story was soon told ; she wanted Nelly to help her to 
get some cheap lodgings in the neighborhood. 

“ And so you know where to come first w’hen you’re down 
in your luck,” said the girl, giving her another kiss, with the 
tears coming into her eyes, for Nelly’s well-worn heart had 
still a true and tender throb in it. “ So sit you down and 
take everything off your mind, and share my room to-night, 
and to-morrow wee’ll see about business. Give me your bon- 
net — there now. Poor dear mother Christmas ! — and I’ll 
give you something to do until supper-time comes, and then 
we shall have a bit of cold mutton and bottled stout. Oh, 
I’ve had my trials, too, my dear, since I saw you ! ” ' 

“What’s been the matter with you, Nelly? That young 
gentleman, I suppose — ” 

“ Oh yes, he’s always at it. But, thank Goodness, IVe got 
rid of him at last ! ” 

“ Quite sure ? ” said the other, with a smile. 

“ Oh, quite. Such a fearful row we had, my dear. First 
about lip-salve ; he accused me of using that to make my lips 
red, when, I declare, I haven’t used it for two years. Very 
well ; just as we had made that up, you know, dear, we w^ere 
walking along Oxford Street, and there was a match-boy 
amusing himself, opposite a public-house, with a lot of other 
boys, and he was dancing a very, very, clever breakdown step, 
and I said I’d give my ears if I could do that — just in fun, 
you know ; and, lor, the passion he got into ! Stormed about 
my low tastes, abused the British drama, said I had no more 


AN OLD ADMIRER. 2^9 

sentiment than a clown ; and then I ordered him oif, and 
walked home by myself.” 

‘^And which of you was the more miserable, Nelly.? ” 

“ I miserable ? Not I ! That very night Mr. Helstone 
sent me the most beautiful little speech about politics and 
other stuff, and Mr. Melton says I may use it in my part.” 

“ You’ll break that young gentleman’s heart, Nelly. Indeed, 
it is a shame — ” 

“ Nonsense ! But I’ll have my revenge upon him this time 
for his quarrelling with me. You see this is a boy’s dress. 
I’ve made the skirt of it two inches shorter than I should 
have done — there ! And I shall be in tights ; and dance a 
breakdown ; and sing a music-hall song ; and when the lime- 
light comes on at the end, /’// stare into it as hard as ever I 
cany 

“ But why should you injure your eyes ? ” 

“To provoke him — he will be there. And he hates to see 
me in a boy’s dress ; and he hates to see me dance — ” 

“ But I thought you were never to see him again.” 

“ Neither I shall. Never ! ’* 

Miss Featherstone’s landlady tapped at the door, and en- 
tered with a letter. 

“ Please, miss, he says he’s sorry to trouble you, but is 
there an answer .? ” 

Nelly hurriedly ran over the letter, and there was a wicked 
smile of triumph on her face. 

“ It’s him / ” she said to her companion. “ Would you 
like to see him .? Shall I ask him to come up, since you are 
here ? ” 

“ By all means.” 

“ Mrs. Goddridge, tell him I have a friend with me, and he 
may come up, if he likes.” 

Blushing, embarrassed, delighted, shamefaced, and yet 
radiant with joy, Mr. Frank Glyn was introduced to Annie 
Brunei. He was a good-looking, slightly-built young fellow, 
with a sensitive cast of face, pleasant large blue eyes, and a 
certain tenderness about the lines of the mouth which boded 
ill for his future reminiscences of his acquaintance with Miss 
Nelly Featherstone. That young person should have been 
flirted with by a man of stronger mettle than Frank Glyn. 

“I hope I am not disturbing you,” he said, nervously, 
looking at the table. 

“ I hope you are in a better temper than when I last saw 
you,” said she. 

“ We may let by-gones be by-gones now, Nelly. It wouldn’t 


260 


JN SILK A 'niRK, 


do to fight before Miss Brunei. She might have a strange 
impression of us.” 

I think you are two foolish children,” said Annie Brunei, 
“ who don’t spend a peaceable life when you might.” 

“ 1 say so, too,” said Nelly. “ Life is itot so long, as I have 
told him, that we can afford to throw it away in quarrels. 
And yet he will quarrel. Confess that you always do quarrel, 
Frank. There is only one person in the world who is always 
good to me ; and I do so love him ! When the dear old 
gentleman who made me these boots brought them home, 
and when I looked at them, I could have thrown my arms 
round his neck.” 

“ I dare say you could, without looking at the boots,” said 
her lover, with a fierce and terrible sneer. 

‘‘ 1 suppose it’s a weakness,” said Nelly, with philosophic 
equanimity, “ but I confess that I love a pair of beautiful little, 
bright, neat, soft, close-fitting boots better than any man I 
ever saw.” 

She caught up that charming little pair of gleaming boots, 
and pressed them to her bosom, and folded her hands over 
them, and then took them and kissed them affectionately 
before placing them again on the table. 

An awful thunder-cloud dwelt on poor Frank’s brow. 

“ I shall take them to bed with me,” said the young lady, 
with loving eyes still on the small heels and the green satin ; 
“ and I’ll put them underneath my pillow, and dream of them 
all the night through.” 

Mr. Glyn got up. There was a terrible look in his eyes, 
and a terrible cold harshness in his voice, as he said : 

“ I am interrupting your work and your conversation, 
ladies. Good-night, Miss Brunei ; good-bye. Miss Feather- 
stone I ^ 

With which he shook hands and departed — to spend the 
rest of the evening in walking recklessly along dark suburban 
roads, nvondering whether a few drops of prussic acid might 
not be his gentlest friend. 

First love had been awakened in Frank Glyn’s heart by the 
unlucky instrumentality of Miss Featherstone. Delighted 
with this new and beautiful idealism, he was eager to repay 
her with an extravagant gratitude for what, after all, was only 
his own gift to himself. Nelly knew nothing of this occult 
psychical problem ; but was aware of the extravagant grati- 
tude, and conducted herself towards it and him with such 
results as do not concern this present history. 


AN OLD ADMIRER. 


263 


‘‘You are very hard upon the poor bo}^,” said Annie 
Brunei. 

Nelly pouted prettily, as if she had been ten years younger 
than she was, and said he had no business to be so quick- 
tempered. But after supper, when they were retiring for the 
night, and she had grown confidential, she confessed she was 
very fond of him, and hoped he would come again and 
“ make it up.” 

“I can’t help quarrelling with him, and he can’t help 
quarrelling with me ; and so we’ll go on, and on, and on — ” 

“ Until you marry.” 

“ No, until I marry somebody else, for the sake of peace 
and quiet. And yet I declare if he were to come boldly up 
to-morrow and insist on my marrying him. I’d do it at once. 
But he is always too sensitive and respectful, and I can’t 
help teasing him. Why doesn’t he make me do what he 
wants ? He’s a man, and I’m a woman ; and yet I never feel 
as if he were stronger than I was — as if I ought to look to 
him for strength, and advice, and what not. He’s too much 
of a girl in his delicate, frightened ways.” 

Next morning Nelly got a messenger and sent him up to 
Mr. John Hubbard’s for Annie Brunei’s boxes, which had 
been left packed up : then they two went out to inspect some 
lodgings which had been recommended to them by Miss 
Featherstone’s landlady. The house was a dingy building in 
Howland Street, Tottenham Court Road ; but the rent of the 
two rooms was small, and Miss Brunei engaged them. She 
had very little money now in her purse. Mrs. Hubbard and 
she had been on so peculiar terms that both refrained from 
talking about salary; and when the boxes were brought down 
to Nelly’s place by the messenger, no communication of any 
kind accompanied them. 

“ If they want to see me, Nelly,” said Annie Brunei, “ they 
will send to your house, thinking that my address. But I 
don’t want my address to be given them, mind, on any con- 
sideration.” 

“ But how are you to live, my dear ? ” 

“ I must find out, like other poople,” she said, with a smile. 

“Won’t your Anerley friends help you 

“ What help could I take from them Besides, they are 
worse off than myself ; and that pretty girl of theirs, about 
whom I have so often spoken to you, is very poorly, and 
wants to be taken out of London. I should rather like to 
help them than think of their helping me.” 

“ Won’t you come back to the stage, then ? ” 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


“ Not until I’m starving.” 

The rehearsals for the new burlesque began, and a farce 
was put on in which Nelly played ; so that, for several 
days, she was so busy from morning till night that she 
never had time to run up to see her friend in these poor 
Howland Street lodgings. So Annie Brunei was left alone. 
The Anerleys had not her address ; the Hubbards she was 
only too anxious to avoid ; Mrs. Christmas, her old com- 
panion, was gone ; and around her were thousands of her 
fellow-creatures all struggling to get that bit of bread and that 
glass of water which were necessary to her existence. 

The landlady and her husband treated her with great re- 
peat, because, when asked for a month’s rent in advance, she 
at once ga\'e them the two sovereigns demanded. There re- 
mained to her, in available money, about twenty-four shillings, 
which is not a great sum wherewith to support a person look- 
ing out for a situation in London. 

In about a week’s time Nelly Featherstone called. After 
the usual osculation and “ my dearing,” Nelly assumed a 
serious air, and said that it wouldn’t do. 

“You’re looking remarkably ill, and you’ll be worse if you 
sit moping here, and doing nothing. You must be a descend- 
ant of Don Quixote. Why not come down to the theatre, 
see Mr. Melton, and get an engagement ? ” 

“ I can’t do it, Nelly.” 

“ You mean you won’t. Then, at all events, 3^ou’ll spend 
to-day as a holiday. The rehearsals are all over. I shall 
send for Frank, and he will take us into the country.” 

“ For shame ! — to drive that poor fellow mad, and then call 
him back whenever 3^011 want a service from him ! ” 

“It will give him far more delight than it will us.” 

“No, Nelly; I have no heart to go anywhere. If you 
have promised to meet your Frank, as I imagine, you ought 
to go off by yourself at once.” 

“ I’m not going to do anything of the kind. Tell me what 
you mean to do if you remain in the house.” 

“ See if there are any more letters I can write, and watch 
the postman as he comes round from Tottenham Court 
Road.” 

“ Then you can’t go on doing that forever. Put on your 
bonnet, and let us have a walk down Regent Street, and then 
come and have dinner with me, and spend the afternoon with 
me, until I go to the theatre.” 

This she was ultimately persuaded to do. Nelly did her 


AN OLD ADMIRER, 263 

Utmost to keep her friend in good spirits, and altogether the 
day was passed pleasantly enough. 

But the reaction came when Nelly had to go down to the 
theatre alone. 

“ You look so very wretched and miserable,” said she to 
Annie. “ I can’t bear the idea of your going home to that 
dull room. And what nonsense it is not to have a fire be- 
cause you can’t afford it ! Come you down to the theatre ; 
Mr. Melton will give you a stage-box all to yourself ; then 
you’ll go home with me to-night, and stay with me.” 

She would not do that. She went home to the cold, dark 
room — she lighted only one candle, for economy’s sake — and 
she asked if there were any letters. There were none. 

She had only a few shillings left now. She abhorred the 
idea of getting into debt with her landlady ; but that, or star- 
vation, lay clearly before her. And as she sat and pondered 
over her future, she wondered whether her mother had ever 
been in the like straits — whether she, too, had ever been alone, 
with scarcely a friend in the world. She thought of the count, 
too. 

“ If the beggar would marry the king, and exchange her 
rags for silk attire,” she said to herself, bitterly, “ now would 
be the time.” 

By the nine-o’clock post no letter came ; but a few min- 
utes after the postman had passed, the landlord came up to 
the door of her room. 

“ A letter, please, miss — left by a boy.” 

Hoping against hope, she opened it as soon as the man 
had left. Something tumbled out and fell on the floor. On 
the page before her she saw inscribed, in a large, coarse, 
masculine handwriting, these words : 

An ola admirer begs the liberty to send the enclosed to Miss 
Brunei,, with love and affection ^ 

But in that assumed handwriting Nelly Featherstone’s ^’s 
and ^-’s were plainly legible. The recipient of the letter 
picked up the folded paper that had fallen. It was a five- 
pound note. 

“ Poor Nelly ! ” she said, with a sort of nervous smile ; 
and then her head fell on her hands, which were on the 
table, and she burst into tears over the scrawled bit of 
paper. 


IN SILK A TIIRE. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 

POSSESSION. 

Mr. Joseph Cayley, Jr., sat in his private room in the 
office of Cayley & Hubbard. He was an unusually tall man, 
with a thin, cold, hard face, black eyes, black hair, and an 
expression of extraordinary solemnity. He looked as if none 
of his ancestors had ever laughed. A shrewd and clear- 
headed man of business, he was remarkable at once for his 
upright conduct of professional affairs, and for the uncom- 
promising frankness, vdth the extreme courtesy, of his per- 
sonal demeanor. His friends used to wonder how such a 
man and John Hubbard ever pulled together ; but they did, 
and their business w'as even better now than when old Mr. 
Cayley took John Hubbard into partnership. 

A -card was handed to Mr, Cayley by one of the youths in 
the office. He glanced at the card, looked at it attentively, 
and then there came over his face a singular expression of 
concern, surprise, and almost fear. 

“ Show her in,” he said, sharply, to the lad. 

He rose and paced up and down the room for a moment ; 
then he found himself bowdng into a chair a lady completely 
dressed in black, who had just entered. 

“ Will you permit me,” he said, fixing his big black eyes upon 
her, “ to ask my partner to join us } 1 anticipate the object 

of your visit, and — and — ” 

“ Does your partner live at Haverstock Hill ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I would rather speak with you alone, then,” said the 
young lady, calmly. “ I have here a letter from my mother, 
Mrs. Brunei, to you. I need not explain to you why the let- 
ter has not been delivered for years. I was not to deliver it 
until necessity — ” 

“You need not explaip,” said Mr. Cayley, hurriedly taking 
the letter. “ This is adressed to my father, but I may open 
it. I know its contents : I know everything you wish to know, 
Miss Brunei.” 

When he had opened the letter, he read it, and handed it 
to Annie Brunei, who read these words : 

“ Mr. Cayley, — My daughter claims her rights. 

“ Annie, Marchioness of Knottingley.” 


POSSESSION. 


265 


She looked at him, vaguely, wonderingly, and at the faded 
brown writing again. The words seemed to disappear in a 
mist : then there was a soft sound in her ears, as of her 
mother’s voice ; and then a sort of languor stole over her, and 
it seemed to her thatshe was falling asleep. 

“ Take this glass of wine,” was the next thing she heard. 
“ You have been surprised, alarmed, perhaps. But you know 
the handwriting to be your mother’s ? ”* 

“ Yes,” was the reply, in a low voice. 

“ And you understand now why you were to call upon us ? ” 

“ I don’t know — I don’t understand — my mother ought to 
be here now,” said the girl, in hurried, despairing accents. 
“ If that letter means anything, if my mother was a rich 
lady, why did she keep always to the stage Why conceal it 
from me ? And my father — where was he, that he allowed 
her to travel about, and work day after day and night after 
night ? ” 

“ He was dead.” 

Many and many a time had Joseph Cayley rehearsed this 
scene upon which he had now entered. His earliest initiation 
into the secrets of the office was connected with it. It had 
been a legacy to him from his father; and the unusual mys- 
tery and importance of the case had so impressed him, that 
he used to imagine all the circumstances of the young girl’s 
coming to claim her own, and of his speeches and bearing 
during the interview. He forgot all his elaborate speeches, 
and remembering only the bare facts of the case, related them 
with as great delicacy as he could.. Now for the first time 
did Annie Brunei understand the sad circumstances of her 
mother’s story, and for the moment she lost sight of every- 
thing else. She was away back in that strange and mournful 
past, recalling her mother's patient bearing, her heroic labor, 
her more than heroic cheerfulness and self-denial, and the 
bitter loneliness of her last hours, 

“ It was his friends who kept him from her ? ” she asked, 
not daring to look up. 

The lawyer knew better ; but he dared not tell the cruel 
truth to the girl. 

“ Doubtless,” he said. “ Your father’s friends were very 
proud, and very much against his marrying an actress.” 

“And my mother feared my going among them ? ” 

“ Doubtless. But you need not do so now.” 

“ Do they know who I am ? ” 

“ Yes, my lady.'"' 

He uttered the words, not out of compliment, but of set pur- 


266 


IN SILK A rriRE. 


pose. It was part of the information he had to give her. 
She looked up to him with a curious look, as if he were some 
magician who had suddenly given her sackfuls of gold, and 
was about to change the gold again into flints. 

“If all this is true, why did I never hear it from any one 
else ? ” 

“ We alone knew, and your father’s friends. They con- 
cealed the marriage as well as they could, and certainly 
never would speak to any one about you.” 

“ And all these estates you speak of are mine ? ” she said, 
with a bewildered look on her face. 

“Yes.” 

“ And all that money ? ” 

“ Certainly.’^ 

“Without the chance of anybody coming forward and say- 
ing it is not mine ? ” 

“ There is no such that I know of, once you have been 
identified as Lady Knottingley’s daughter, and that will not 
be difficult.” 

“ And I can do with the money what I like .? ” she asked, 
the bewilderment turning to a look of joy. 

“ Most undoubtedly.” 

“ Out of such sums as you mention, I could give twenty 
thousand pounds to one person, and the same amount to 
another ? ” 

“ Certainly. But you will forgive my saying that such be- 
quests are not usual ; perhaps you will get the advice of a 
friend.” 

“ I have only two friends — a Miss Featherstone, and an 
old gentleman called Mr. Anerley. These are the two I 
mean.” 

Mr. Cayley opened his eyes with astonishment. 

“ Miss Featherstone, of the Theatre ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ You propose to give her twenty thousand pounds ? ” 

“ Yes,” said the young girl, frankly, and with a bright, 
happy look on her face. 

“ The imprudence — the indiscretion — if I may say so ! (al- 
though it is no business of mine, my lad\% and we shall be 
glad to fulfil any of your instructions). What could such a 
girl do with that sum of money ? ” 

“What shall I do with all the rest — if it is real, which I can 
scarcely believe yet ? But I wish you to tell me truly Avhat 
was my mother’s intention in keeping this secret from me. 
I was only to apply to you in extreme need. No one knows 


POSSESSIOA/. 


267 


how extreme my need is — how extreme it was last night, 
when it drove me to take out that letter and resolve to appeal 
to you.” 

“Your mother told my father why she should keep the 
secret from you. She wished you never to undergo the wrongs 
she had suffered by coming in contact with those people 
whose influence over your father she feared and hated.” 

“ And how she used to teach me always to rely upon the 
stage ! ” she said, musingly, and scarcely addressing herself 
to the man before her. “ Perhaps I have done very wrong in 
relinquishing it. Perhaps I am to have as miserable a life as 
she had ; but it will not be through themr 

“ Now, my lady, there is no necessity why you should ever 
see one of the family.” 

“ And it was her wish that I should come to you when I 
was in extreme distress — ? ” 

“ Distress ! I hope not pecuniary — ” 

“That, and nothing else, ” said the girl, calmly. 

Mr. Cayley was only too glad to become her banker until 
the legal arrangements should permit of her stepping into a 
command of money such as Harry Ormond himself had never 
owned. 

“ And in the mean time,” she added, “ you will not mention 
to any one my having seen you. I do not know' what I shall 
do yet. I fear there is something wrong about it all — some- 
thing unreal or dangerous ; and when I think of my poor 
mother’s life, I do not wish to do anything in haste. I can- 
not believe that all this money is mine. And the title, too — 
I should feel as if I were on the stage again, and were assum- 
ing a part that I should have to drop in an hour. I don’t 
want all that money ; I should be afraid of it. If my mother 
were only here to tell me ! ” 

Mr. Caley was called away at this moment to see some 
other visitor. In his absence John Hubbard came to the 
door of the room and looked in. 

He saw before him a figure which he instantly recognized. 
The girl was looking at the sheet of brown paper which bore 
her mother’s name, her eyes were wet, and her hands were 
clasped together, as if in mute supplication to that scrap of 
writing to say something more and guide her in this great 
emergencyi^ John Hubbard guessed the whole situation of 
affairs directly. Without a moment’s hesitation, he entered, 
and Annie Brunei looked up. 

“ My poor girl ! ” he said, in accents of deep compassion, 
with his pale face twitching nervously, “ I understand your 


26S 


IN SILK ATTIRE. 


sad position ; and if you had only remained in our house a 
few days longer, our counsel and advice might have been of 
service to you in this crisis. How deeply you must feel the 
want of a true and faithful adviser ! ” 

John Hubbard became aware that he had made a mistake. 
All the return that his sympathetic consolation provoked was 
a calm and penetrating look : and then, with a sudden change 
of manner, that surprised and half frightened him, she rose 
to her feet, and said, coldly and proudly, 

“ I am here on business ; it is Mr. Cayley I wish to see.” 

Bewildered alike by her manner and her speech, Mr. Hub- 
bard only blundered the worse. 

“My lady,” he said, hurriedly, and with profound respect, 
“ you will forgive me if I have been too forgetful in offering 
you my sympathy. But as an old friend — our old relations — 
the pleasant evenings — ” 

“ Mr. Hubbard,” she said, in the same tone (and before 
the clear, cold, cruel notes of her voice the walls of his im- 
aginative Jericho fell down and crumbled into dust), “ I am 
much obliged to you and your wife for having emiDloyed me. 
I hope 1 did my work in return for the food I received. As 
to your kindness, and the pleasant evenings spent in your 
house, I have an impression which I need not put into words. 
You knov/ I had a conversation with your brother before I 
left your house which seemed to explain your kindness to me. 
At the same time, I am as grateful to you as I can be.” 

“ That brother of mine again ! ” thought Hubbard, with an 
inward groan. 

Mr. Cayley came into the room, and was surprised to find 
his partner there. 

“ I wish to speak to you in private, sir,” said Miss Brunei 
to Mr. Cayley; and, thus dismissed, John Hubbard retired, 
thinking of the poor children who had been deprived of 
handsome little presents all through the blundering folly of 
their uncle. 

“Hang him!” said John Hubbard; “the best thing the 
fool can do is to shoot himself and leave his money to the 
boys. As for her^ he has set her dead against me forever. 
And now she will be Lady Annie Knottingley, and my wife 
might have been her best friend, and we might have lived, 
almost, at that splendid place in Berks-^an(;^tlie chil- 
dren—” ^ 

There was no more miserable creature in London that day 
than the count’s brother ; and he considered himself an in- 
jured, ill-used, and virtuous man. 


FOSS£SS/qJV: 'i6g 

The appearance of John Plubbard had done this one good 
thing — it had determined Annie Brunei to makeup her mind. 
It recalled so forcibly the loneliness and misery, the humilia- 
tion and wretchedness, of these past months, that she 
instantly resolved never, if she could help it, to come into 
contact with such people again. With this wealth at her 
command, she was free. She could choose such friends and 
scenes and pursuits as she liked best ; she could — and here 
the warm heart of her leaped up with joy — she could reach 
out her hand to those friends who might be in want; she 
could be their secret protector, and glide in like an invisible 
fairy to scare away the wolf from their door by the sunshine 
of her gilded and luminous presence. This splendid poten- 
tiality she hugged to her heart with a great joy ; and as she 
went away from Mr. Cayley’s office (after a long interview, in 
which he explained to her the legal aspects and requirements 
of the situation) there was a fine, happy light on her face. 
She no longer doubted that it was all real. She already felt 
the tingling of a full hand, and her- brain was busy with pict- 
ures of all the people to whom that hand was to be freely 
extended. In many a romance had she played ; but never a 
romance like this, in which all the world but herself was ig- 
norant of the secret. She would go about, like an emperor 
with a bundle of pardons in his pocket — like a kindly spirit 
who would transform the coals in poor men’s grates into 
lumps of gleaming rubies, and diamonds, and emeralds. She 
would conceal her mysterious power ; and lo ! the invisible 
will would go forth, and this or that unhappy man or woman 
— ready to sink in despair before the crushing powers of cir- 
cumstance — would suddenly receive her kindly help, and 
find himself or herself enriched and made comfortable by an 
unknown agency. 

Like every one who has suffered the trials of poverty, she 
fancied that nearly all the ills of life were attributable to 
want of money, and she saw in this wealth which had become 
hers a magnificent instrument of amelioration. She had a 
very confused notion of Mr. Cayley’s figures. She knew the 
value of five pounds, or twenty, or even a hundred; but when 
it came to thousands, comprehension failed her. She could 
not tell the difference between a hundred and fifty thousand 
pounds and tlitf same sum per annum ; both quantities were 
not reducil^ to‘the imagination, and consequently conveyed 
no distinct impression. She knew vaguely that the money 
at her command was inexhaustible ; she could give each of 
her friends — certainly she had not many — a fortune without 


270 


m SILK ATTIRE, 


aflecting (sensibly to herself) this accumulation of banker’s 
ciphers. 

So she walked westward through the crowded city, w'eav- 
ing dreams. Habit had so taught her to dread the expense 
of a cab, that she never thought of employing a conveyance, 
although she had in her pockets fifty pounds which Mr. Cay- 
ley had pressed upon her. She was unaware of the people, 
the noise, the cold January wind, and the dust. Her heart 
was sick with the delight of these vague imaginings, and the 
inexpressible joy of her anticipations was proof against those 
physical inconveniences which, indeed, she never perceived. 

Yet her joy was troubled. For among all the figures that 
her heart loved to dwell upon, all the persons whom she pict- 
ured as receiving her munificent and secret kindness, there 
was one with whom she knew not how to deal. What should 
she give to Will Anerley ? The whole love of her heart he 
already possessed ; could she, even though he were to know 
nothing of the donor, offer him money? She shrunk from 
such a suggestion with apprehensive dislike and repugnance ; 
but yet her love for him seemed to ask for something, and 
that something was not money. 

“ What can I do better than make him marry Dove, and 
forget me ? ” she said to herself ; and she was aware of a pang 
at her heart which all Harry Ormond’s money, and twenty 
times that, could not have removed. 

For a little while the light died away from her face ; but 
by-and-by the old cheerful, resolute spirit returned, and she 
continued her brisk walk through the gray and busy streets. 

“'Mr. Cayley,” she said to herself, talking over her projects 
as a child prattles to its new toys, “ fancies Mr. Anerley had 
thirty or forty thousand pounds. If I send him that, they 
will all go down to Kent again, and Dove will win her lover 
back to her with the old associations. They might well marr}^ 
then, if Will were not as fiercely independent as if he were a 
Spanish duke. I could not send him money ; if he were to 
discover it, I should die of shame. But it might be sent to 
him indirectly as a professional engagement ; and then — then 
they would marry, I know — and perhaps they might even ask 
me to the wedding. And I should like to go, to see Dove 
dressed as a bride, and the look on her face I ” 

Dove did not know at that moment what beautiful and gen 
erous spirit was scheming with a woman’s wit to ^secure her 
welfare — what tender projects were blossoming. up, like the 
white flowers of charity and love, in the midst of the dull and 
selfish London streets. But when Annie Brunei, having 


ORMOND PLACE. 


27t 


walked still farther westward, entered the house which the 
Anerleys occupied, and when she came into the room. Dove 
thought she had never seen the beautiful dark face look so 
like the face of an angel. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

ORMOND PLACE. 

A STILL, cold, beautiful morning in March, the dark crimson 
sun slowly creeping up behind the tall and leafless trees of 
the wood on this Berkshire hill. There is snow everywhere 
— snow on the far uplands, snow on this sloping forest, snow 
on the shelving ground that glides down to the banks of the 
smooth blue waters of the Thames. There is a ruddy glow 
over that wintry waste of white ; for the eastern vapors deaden 
the light of the sun, and redden, it and steep the far horizon 
in a soft purple haze. There is not a breath of wind. The 
sere and withered stems of the tall gray rushes by the river- 
side are motionless, except when the wild ducks stir in their 
marshy secrecy, or the water-hens swim out to take a cautious 
look up and down the stream. Here and there, too, the river 
catches a streak of crimson and purple, as it lies hushed and 
still in the hushed, still white meadows. 

Back from these meadows lies the long, low hill which 
slopes downward to the east, and loses itself in illimitable 
woods. Up here on its summit is the little village of Steyne 
— only a church, with a square gray tower, a vicarage smoth- 
ered in dark ivy, and two or three cottages. Farther along 
the great bank you come to the woods of Ormond place ; and 
right in the centre of them, in a great clearance visible for 
miles round, stands, fronting the river and the broad valley 
and the far landscape, the house in which Harry Ormond, 
Marquis of Knottingley, died. 

It is a modern house, large, roomy, and stately, with oval- 
roofed greenhouses breaking the sharp descent of the walls 
to the ground ; a house so tall and well-placed as to overlook 
the great elms in the park, which, on the other side of the 
broad and banked-up lawn, slopes down into the valley. As 
the red sun rises over the purple fog, it catches the pale front 
of the house, and sheds over it a glimmer of gold. The snow 
gleams cold and yellow on the evergreens, on the iron rail- 
ings of the park, on the lawn where it is crossed and recrossed 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


TJt 

with a net-work of rabbits’ footprints. Finally, as the sun 
masters the eastern vapors, and strikes with a wintry radiance 
on the crimson curtains inside the large windows (and they 
have on this morning a warmer light flickering upon them 
from within), Ormond Place, all white and gold, shines like 
a palace of dreams, raised high and clear over that spacious 
English landscape that lies cold and beautiful along the no- 
blest of English rivers. 

There was life and stir in Ormond Place this morning. The 
carriage-drive had been swept; the principal rooms in the 
house stripped of their chintz coverings ; great fires lighted ; 
the children of the lodge dressed in their smartest pinafores ; 
the servants in new liveries ; harness, horses, carriages, and 
stables alike polished to the last degree. The big fires shone 
in the grates, and threw lengthening splashes of soft crimson 
on the thick carpets and up the palely decorated walls. The 
sleeping palace had awoke, and the new rush of life tingled 
in its veins. 

About twelve o’clock in the forenoon the carriage that had 
been sent to Corchester Station returned with two occupants 
inside. The children at the lodge, drawn up in line, bobbed 
a courtesy as they stared wonderingly at the carriage-windov/, 
where they saw nothing. A few minutes afterward Annie 
Brunei, pale a little, and dressed entirely and simply in black, 
walked into her father’s house between the servants, who were 
unconsciously trying to learn their future fate in the expres- 
sion of her face. And if thej did not read in that face a calm 
forbearance, a certain sad sympathy and patience, they had 
less penetration than servants generally have. 

She entered one of the rooms — a great place with panelled 
pillars in the centre, and a vague vision of crystal and green 
leaves at the farther end — and sat down in one of the chairs 
near the blazing fire. It was not a moment of triumph — it 
was a moment of profound, unutterable sadness. The great- 
ness of the place, the strange faces around her, increased the 
weight of loneliness she felt. And then all the reminiscences 
of her mother’s life were present to her, and she seemed to 
have established a new and strange link between herself and 
her. It seemed as if the great chasm of time and circum- 
stance had been bridged over, and that in discovering her 
mother’s house, and the old associations of these by-gone 
years, she should have discovered her also, and met the kindly 
face she once knew. If Annie Napier had walked into the 
room just then, and laid her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, 
I do not think the girl would have been surprised. 


ORMOND PLACE. 


273 


“ Was my mother ever in this house ? ” she asked of Mr. 
Cayley, not noticing that he was still standing with his hat in 
his hand. 

^‘Doubtless. She was married in that little church we 
passed.” 

“ And instead of spending her life here in comfort and quiet, 
he let her go away to America, and work hard and bitterly for 
herself and me ! ” 

Mr. Cayley said nothing. 

“ Do you know anything of her life here ? How long she 
stayed } What were her favorite rooms ? Where she used 
to sit ? ” 

“No, your ladyship; I only presume Lady Knottingley 
must have lived here for a little while before going to Switzer- 
land. My father might be able to tell me.” 

“ I am very anxious to see him — he is the only person I am 
anxious to see. He knew my mother; perhaps he can tell 
me something about her life here and in Switzerland. She 
may have left some things in the house — a book or a picture 
— that he might tell me was hers ; don’t you think so ? ” 

Mr. Cayley, against his knowledge, was forced to admit 
that it was possible, for he saw there were tears in the girl’s 
eyes. 

“ Would you care to go through the house now ? ” he sug- 
gested. “ Mrs. Tillotson will go with you, and see what ar- 
rangements or alterations you want made. And about your 
future residence here — ” 

“ I cannot stay here,” she said ; “ the place is too big and 
too lonely. I could not bear to live alone in this great place.” 

“ Your ladyship need not want for society. Both of the 
trustees. Lord Sefton and — ” 

“ I will not see one of them ! ” she said, with flashing eyes. 
“ I consented to see them, when you said it was necessary — 
but to meet them as friends ! They knew my mother ; they 
must have seen her and known her; and they never tried to 
help her. They were men, and they let a woman be treated 
like that ! ” 

The bitter scorn of the w^ords sounded so strangely as it 
came from the gentle face ; but there was an indignant flush 
in her cheeks, and indignation in her eyes. 

“ My mother spent years of weary labor, that she might 
never go among these people. With all her love for me, she 
thought it better that I too should work for my living, and 
run the chances cf illness, rather than go among them ; and 
am I to make friends with them now ? Their condescension 


274 


2N Sj r.K A TTIRE. 


is great ; but when a womai has lived the life that I have, 
she begins to mistrust peop'2 who want to be friends with 
you only when you become fortunate. And why do they 
want to be friends with me ? They will take me into society ? 
— I don’t wish to go. They will offer me their wives and sis- 
ters as companions ? — I prefer other companions. I would 
rather walk out of this house a beggar to-morrow morning 
than pretend to be friends with people whom I hate 

“ Your ladyship is unjust,” said Mr. Cayley. “ These gen- 
tlemen tried to induce your mother to return to England, 
and accept that effort at compensation which Lord Knotting- 
ley made when it was too late. Nor could they show any in- 
terest in your welfare before now, without revealing that se- 
cret which your mother had imposed on us all. As well 
blame me for not seeking you out before you came to our 
office. We all of us knew who you were ; we were bound to 
let you make the first overtures yourself.” 

“Compensation? You imagine that a woman who had 
her heart broken should have accepted that tardy acknowledg- 
ment of her rights as a sufficient compensation ? ” 

“ It was all Lord Knottingley could then offer,” said the 
lawyer, who stuck manfully to the clear outlines of the case 
as they lay mapped out in his brain, without regard to the 
distortion produced by the generous impulses of love, and 
pity, and indignation. These disturbant influences, in the 
present case, he could not well understand ; for he failed to 
comprehend the powerful caste-hatred w'hich the girl had 
sucked in with her mother’s milk — a bitter and illogical prej- 
udice, which neither the tenderness of her own nature, nor 
the provoked arguments of Will, nor the wise counsel and 
example of Mr. Anerley, had in any way tempered. 

Shortly afterward, they w'ent on a tour of inspection 
through the house, accompanied by Mrs. Tillotson, a tall, 
thin-faced, dark woman, with placid, melancholy eyes and a 
soft voice. The first question asked of the housekeeper by 
her new mistress was whether she remembered Lord Knot- 
tingley’s wife. But neither Mrs. Tillotson nor any one of 
the servants had been with Lord Knottingley at that time. 

“ Except Brooks, my lady, perhaps ; he has been with the 
family since he w^as a boy.” 

“ Who is Brooks ? ” 

“ The lodge-keeper. Perhaps your ladyship didn’t see him 
at the gate, for he is old, and seldom moves out-of-doors. 
But surely on such a day as this — ” 

“ I saw some children — ” 


ORMOND PLACE. 


27S 


“They are his grandchildren — John Brooks’s children; 
they all live in the lodge. But he is sure to present himself 
during the day ; and I hope your ladyship won’t be offended 
by his — his manner — his bluntness of speaking.” 

When they had gone through the house, and the young 
girl had indicated what rooms she should occupy, they re- 
turned downstairs. There was an old man in the hall, his 
cap in his hand, his long white hair falling on the neck of 
his fine Sunday coat, which was considerably too small for 
him. He regarded Annie Brunei with a curious look, and 
said to her, as she approached, 

“ Pardon, my lady ; I thought I’d come up and see as it 
were all true. And true it is — true it is.” 

“ That is Brooks,” said Mrs. Tillotson. 

• The girl bade the old man go into the great drawing-room. 

“ You don’t remember me,” he said. “ I remember you ; 
but as you came down them stairs I’d ’a sworn it wasn’t you. 
If they hadn’t told me you were coming, I should ha’ said it 
was a ghost — the ghost o’ your mother as come down them 
stairs.” 

“You remember her?” she said, with an eager, bright 
look. 

“ Ay, and you too. You don’t remember me ; but I nearly 
killed you once — when your pony tried to take the up- 
per ’and on ye, and I ’it ’im, and afoor I knew where I 
was — ” 

“ But where did all this happen ? ” 

“ Why, in Switzerland^ where you and your mother was. 
I’ve good eyes ; I can remember. And there’s lots more o’ 
the old folk as might, only they’ve turned ’em all off, and 
brought in new uns, as doesn’t know nothin’ o’ the family or 
the Place. It was your father as said I should live here till 
I died, and then they can turn me out, if they like ; and I 
came up to see if it was true you had come home, and whether 
you’d want me to go with the rest. If you mean it, say it, 
plump and plain. I’m not afeard to go; I can earn my liv- 
ing as well as younger men I knows on about this ’ere very 
place.” 

“ My good man, don’t disquiet yourself. You will never 
have to leave your house through me. But I want you to 
tell me all you know about my mother — everything. Won’t 
you sit down ? And you will have some wine ? ” 

Mr. Cayley rung for some wine; and Annie Brunei herself 
poured some into a glass and gave it to the old man. 

“ I like the wine— and it’s not the first time by forty year 


276 


IN SILK A TTIRR. 


as I’ve tasted his lordship’s wine — but I can’t abide them big 
blazing fires as melts a man’s marrow.” 

“ Come outside, then,” said the girl; the day is pleasant 
enough out-of-doors.” 

“Ah, that’s better!” he said; and his keen, fresh face 
brightened up as he stepped outside into the brisk cold air, 
with the brilliant sunshine lying on the crisp snow. 

The two of them walked up and down the long carriage-drive 
between the tall rows of bleak trees; and as the old man gar- 
rulously gossiped about the past times, and his more or less 
confused memories, it seemed to Annie Brunei as though the 
whole scene around her were unreal. The narrowing avenue 
of trees, the heaped-up snow, the broad shafts of sunlight fall- 
ing across the path, the glimpses of the white meadows, and 
the blue stream, and the wintry sunshine hitting on the vane 
of the village church, were all so very like a theatrical “ set ; ” 
while the. man beside her, whom she had never seen before, 
seemed to be some strange link connecting her with a for- 
gotten and inscrutable past. The assurance that he w'ould 
not be “ turned off to follow the rest ” had softened old 
Brooks’s usually querulous and pugnacious manner; and in 
his most genial fashion he recalled and recounted whatever 
stories he could remember of Annie Brunei’s old childhood, 
and of her mother’s happy life on the margin of that Swuss 
lake. 

He actually gossiped his companion into cheerfulness. 
Forgetting all about Mr. Cayley, she went with Brooks down 
to the lodge ; and there the old man, intensely proud of the 
familiarity he had already established between himself and 
her, presented to her with calm airs of superiority, his over- 
awed son and daughter-in-law. And the new mistress made 
herself quite at home ; and had two of the children on her 
knee at once ; and was interested in Tom’s pet blackbird; 
and expressed her admiration of Jack’s string of blown eggs ; 
and finally invited all the young ones to tea, in the house- 
keeper’s room, that evening at six punctually. Another visit 
was expected that evening. Much as Annie Brunei desired 
to play the part of a secret and invisible benefactor to all her 
friends, she found that this would cut off from her any chance 
of companionship ; and so, before going down into Berks, 
she had told the story of her altered fortunes to Nelly Feather- 
stone, and begged of that young person to come dowm and 
stay with her for a time. Nelly burst into tears of joy; 
was profoundly conscious of the benefit of having so desirably 


ORMOND PLACE. 


rich a friend ; was honestly delighted and prudently specula- 
tive at the same moment, and accepted the invitation. 

Nelly was a girl of spirit. She knew she would be in- 
spected by critical servants, and perhaps by visitors of exalted 
rank, and she resolved not to shame her old friend. She ac- 
curately sketched beforehand the chaiacter she would as- 
sume ; fixed her demeanor ; decided the tone she would 
adopt in speaking to Lady Annie Knottmgley ; and, finally, 
bought the current number of Funch^ and dressed her hair 
and herself in imitation of one of the ladies of that periodical. 

The carriage was sent to meet her at Corchester in the 
evening. The calm dignity with which she treated the serv- 
ants was admirable. Nor was her dress less admirable, so 
far as a faithful copy of the Punch lady was concerned, ex- 
cept in point of color. Unfortunately she had no guide to 
color, except her own rather whimsical taste ; and as several 
parts of her attire belonged to her dramatic wardrobe, she 
looked like a well-dressed lady seen through a prism. 

When she entered the house, confronted the servants, 
was introduced to Mr. Cayley, and quietly went up to kiss 
Annie Brunei, her manner was excellent. A woman who 
makes a living by studying the ridiculous, and imitating it, 
can lay it aside when she chooses. Nor was her assumption 
of womanly dignity and reserve less a matter of ease. Nelly 
Featherstone was clever enough to conceal herself from the 
eyes of a critical London audience ; surely she would be able 
to impose on a lot of country servants, and a lawyer inexperi- 
enced in theatrical affairs. 

When she came into the drawing-room before dinner her 
make-up was magnificent. She was a little too gorgeous, 
certainly; but in these days considerable latitude is allowed 
in color and shade. Miss Brunei was alone. 

“Why, Nelly,” she said, “what was the use of your troub- 
ling to make yourself so fine t I must have put you to so 
much expense ! ” 

“ Well, you have,” said the other. “ But it isn’t every day 
I dine a^t a grand house.” 

“ And you mustn’t talk to me as if I were a duchess 
merely because Mr. Cayley is present. I have asked him to 
dine with us. You must speak to me as you are speaking 
now.” 

“ Oh no, my dear, it would never do,” said the practical 
Nelly, with a wise shake of the head. “ If you don’t remem- 
ber "who you are, I must. You are a fine lady ; I am an 
actress. If you ask me to visit you, it is because you wish 


278 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


me to amuse you. But when I’m not amusing you, I must 
be respectful. Mr. Cayley knows who I am ; the servants 
don’t. I can be grand to them ; but with him — ” 

“ My absurd girl, why won’t you be yourself ? You don’t 
need to care for Mr. Cayley, or the servants, or any one else. 
Mr. Cayley knows I was an actress ; if the servants don’t, 
they will very soon. And you are here merely as my friend, 
and I am deeply indebted to you for coming ; and if Mr. 
Melton will only refrain from changing the pieces for weeks 
to con^e, we shall have a pleasant romp together down here. 
By-the-way, did you hear some absurd noises a few minutes 
ago.?” 

“ I did.” 

“ That was my first token of popularity. I had the lodge- 
keeper’s children up here to tea ; and as they all got a lump 
of cake when they went away, they collected round the door 
outside and cheered. I think they call that intimidation and 
bribery — buying the popular vote, or something of the kind.” 

During dinner an obvious battle was being waged between 
Nelly and the butler. But the official and cumbrous dignity 
of the one was no match for the splendid and haughty lan- 
guor of Nelly’s eyes, and the indolent indifference of her 
manner and tone. Somehow the notice of the servants was 
chiefly drawn to Miss Featherstone ; but she decidedly man- 
aged to conquer them, and that in a style which puzzled and 
amused her friend at the head of the table. Nor would 
Nelly permit the least familiarity of approach on the part of 
her hostess. And as it would have been preposterous to 
have chatted confidentially with a person who returned these 
advances with a marked deference and respect, “ my lady ” 
fell into her friend’s whim, and the conversation at dinner 
was consequently somewhat peculiar. 

When the two women were left alone, however, Annie Bru- 
nei strongly remonstrated. But Nelly was firm : 

“ If you don’t know who you are, I do.” 

Drawing two low easy-chairs in towards the fire, they sat 
down and entered into mutual confidences. The one had 
much to tell — the other much to suggest ; and never had two 
children more delight in planning what they would do if they 
were emperors, than had these two girls in concocting plots 
for the benefit of all the persons they knew, and a great 
many more. 

Miss Brunei took a note from her pocket, and gave it to 
her companion to read. 

‘‘ In strict confidence,” she added. 


ORMOND PLACE, 


279 


These were the words Nelly saw : “ A friend,, who has ur- 
gent reasons for remaining unknown,, has placed to the credit of 
Mr. Hubert Anerley^ at the London and Westminster Bank,, 
the sum of thirty thousand pounds. Mr. Anerley is asked to 
accept this money as a free and frankly offered gift,, to be used on 
behalf of hbnself and his family. A bank-note qf one hundred 
pounds is enclosed, to satisfy Mr. Anerley that this communica- 
tion is made in good faith 

“ Thirty thousand pounds ! ” said Nelly, in an awed whis- 
per. “ I have often thought of some one sending me a lot 
of money — thousands, millions of money — but I think if any 
one were actually to send me a hundred pounds, I should 
die of surprise first and joy afterward.” 

“ The money has already been placed to his account at 
the bank ; and this note will be sent to him to-morrow, when 
Mr. Cayley returns to town. How I should like to send old 
White the prompter, a hundred pounds — the poor old man 
who has the dreadful wife ! ” 

“ Don’t do anything of the kind, my dear,” said Nelly, 
sagely. “ He would starve his wife worse than ever, because 
he wouldn’t earn a penny until he had drunk every farthing of 
the money you sent him.” 

“ Perhaps you will forbid my giving you anything ? ” 

“ Certainly not ; I should be glad of a cup of tea or cof- 
fee.” 

“ Which .? ” 

“ I like coffee best, but I prefer tea,” said Nelly, with 
grave impartiality. 

Tea and coffee having been procured, they continued their 
talk. 

“ You went to my lodgings ? ” 

“ And secured them for an indefinite time .? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And all my clothes and things are as I left them ” 

“Yes — that is, as far as I could look over them. Mr. 
Glyn was with me.” 

“ Oh, he has forgiven you again ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” said Nelly, with a touch of indignation. 
“ He has not forgiven me, for I never provoked a quarrel 
with him in my life. He has come to his senses, that is 
all ; and he is no sooner come to them than he is off 
again. But this is the final blow ; he will never get over 
this.” 

“ This what ? ” 


28 o 


JN SILK ATTIRE. 


“ My disappearance from London without telling him. I 
go back. He comes to see me ; is surprised, offended ; 
wants me to be penitent for having annoyed him by my 
^nce. Of course I am not. Then he becomes angry, de- 
mands to know where I have been. I tell him that is my 
business, and he goes off in a fury. Thafs nothing new. 
But then he sends me a formal note, saying that unless I 
write to him and explain my absence from London he will 
never see me again.” 

“ Which you will do .? ” 

“ How could I, without telling him about you ? ” 

“ Say you went to visit a friend.” 

“Then he says, ‘What friend.?’ with a face as black as 
thunder. I reply that I won’t be subjected to such suspi- 
cions. He retorts that he is not suspicious ; but that com- 
mon-sense, and what not, and what not. I tell him that he 
dare not talk to a lady of his own class in the way he talks to 
me ; and that it is because I am an actress that he is suspi- 
cious, taking up the vulgar prejudices against actresses. Now, 
all the time I have known him, I don’t think we ever passed 
a day without having a quarrel about the profession.” 

“Your acquaintanceship must have been agreeable ?” 

“ It has. There is nothing both of us like so much as 
quarrelling and making-up. For my part I couldn’t bear to 
have a sweetheart always pleasant, and reasonable, and sensi- 
ble. I like one who is madly in love, who does extravagant 
things, who quarrels fearfully, and gets frantic with delight 
when you let him be friends again.” 

“ But the very last time we spoke of Mr. Glyn you said he 
and you would never get on together, because he wanted 
those very virtues of solidity and common-sense and manly 
forbearance. You said he was too like yourself.” 

“ Did I say so ? Well, I have a different explanation of it 
every day. I only know that we perpetually quarrel, and 
that the making-up of quarrels is very nice.” 

“ What would you do if I were to give you five hundred 
pounds a year ? ” 

“ Go to Paris, and drive in the Bois de Boulogne with a 
pair of ponies,” replied Nelly, with admirable precision. 

“Wouldn’t you marry Mr. Glyn, leave the stage, and be 
comfortable in some small house at Hampstead ?” 

“No,” she said, frankly; “ I haven’t got the domestic 
faculty. I should worry his life out in a few months.” 

“ What do you say, then, to going with me to America ? 1 
mean to leave England for a long time — for some years — and 


THE coulin: 


281 

I shall spend most of the time in America, visiting the places 
my mother and I used to know.” 

“ You are going to leave England ? ” said Nelly, looking 
up with earnest, curious eyes. 

“ Yes.” 

“You will forgive my saying it — you have had some pecu- 
liar secret from me for a long time — not your coming here, 
but something quite different. I knew that when you sud- 
denly left the stage, and wouldn’t return, for no reason 
whatever. Why should you have left the stage, ^ of all 
people 1 ” 

“ I left it simply because I got to dislike it — to hate it ! ” 

Nelly Featherstone said nothing, but she'was evidently not 
satisfied with the answer. She remained unusually thought- 
ful for some time. 

“ And now you are going to America,” she said. “ Is there 
no other reason besides your wish to visit those places you 
speak of ? ” 

“ There is ; but it is of no consequence to any one.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“ THE COULIN.” 

The snow that shone and gleamed in the sunlight along 
the Berkshire hills lay thick in the London squares, and was 
trampled brown and dry in the London streets ; and yet even 
in the City it was white enough to throw a light upon the 
faces of the passers-by, until commonplace countenances un- 
derwent a sort of transfiguration ; and there was in the atmos- 
phere a pearly radiance that brightened the fronts of the gray 
houses and glimmered into small and dingy rooms. 

“Let all the light come in,” said Dove, lying in bed, with 
a strange transparent color in her cheeks and a wan lustre 
in her beautiful violet eyes ; and when they let the strong light 
in, it fell on her face, and painted away the shadows under 
the eyebrows until the head that lay on the soft pillow ac- 
quired a strange ethereal glory — a vision colored with sunlight. 

“ You haven’t played ‘ The Coulin ’ for me for a long time 
now, Dove,” said Mr. Anerley. 

“ You used never to like my playing * The Coulin ; ’ why do 
you want me to play it now ? ” 

“ I w'ish you were well enough to play anything, my darling.” 


282 


IN SILK A TTIRE, 


The girl stretched out her tiny pale hand towards his : 

“How you have petted me lately ! If I were to get up just 
now and sing you the song I used to sing you, you 
wouldn’t laugh at my ‘meghily ’ any more, would you ? ” 
Meghily, meghily shall I sleep now ” — the words sounded in 
his ears as the refrain of some spirit-song, heard long ago, in 
happy times, down in the far-off legendary Kentish Eden, 
where they had once lived. 

“ A letter for you, papa,” said Mrs. Anerley, entering the 
room. 

“ I don’t want it ! ” he said, petulantly and angrily turning 
away — quarrelling with the mist of bitter tears that rose 
around his eyes. 

She glanced from him to Dove (her kindly eyes brightened 
as they met the quiet look of the girl), laid the letter down, 
and left the room again. Mechanically he took up the letter, 
opened it, and read it. Before he had finished, however, 
he seemed to recall himself ; and then he read it again from 
the beginning — carefully, anxiously, with strange surprise 
on his face. He looked at the envelope, again at the letter, 
and finally at the bank-note which he held in his hand. 

“ Dove, Dove ! ” he said, “ look at this ! Here is the 
money that is to take us all down to St. Mary-Kirby again — 
back to the old house, you know, and your own room up- 
stairs ; and in a little while the spring-time will be in, and 
you and I shall go down to the river for primroses, as we 
used to do. Here it is. Dove — everything we want ; and we 
can go, whenever you brighten up and get strong enough to 
move.” 

“But where did you get the money, papa ?” 

“ God must have looked at your face, my darling, and seen 
that you wanted to go to St. Mar}’- Kirby.” 

“And you have plenty of money, papa, to spend on any- 
thing ? ” 

All his ordinary prudence forsook him. Even without 
that guarantee of the bank-note, he would at once have 
believed in the genuineness of the letter, so eager was he 
to believe it for Dove’s dear sake. 

“ Plenty of money. Dove ? Yes. But not to spend on 
anything. Only to spend on you.” 

“ There was Will’s knock,” she said ; “ he has just come in 
time to hear the news. But go and tell him in another 
room, papa, for I am tired.” 

So he left the room, and, as Will had come in, the two men 
had a long consultation over this strange letter. 


THE COULIN^ 


283 


You need not remain long in suspense, sir,” said Will. 
** Write me out a check for fifty pounds, and I will take it 
down to the bank.” 

“ But I have none of the printed checks of the bank.” 

“ You don’t need one. That is a vulgar error. Any bit 
of paper with a stamp bn it will do.” 

“ But they must know that my signature is genuine.” 

“ True. You must come down with me and see the manager. 
In any case, we can bear the disappointment, if the thing is 
a hoax. When you have ascertained that you are a rich man, 
father. I’ll give you another piece of good news.” 

Mrs. Anerley was left with Dove, and the two men drove 
off to the bank. The manager had expected the visit. He 
warded off Will’s bold inquiries with a grave silence ; he had 
received certain instructions — it was not his business to say 
from whom. 

“ Before I can avail myself of this money,” said Mr. Aner- 
ley, “you must at least answer me one question. Was it 
placed in your hands by Frederick Hubbard — Count Schon- 
stein ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Thank you.” 

So they went out into the free air, and lo ! I^ondon was 
changed. It was no longer a cruel and bitter mother, starving 
her children, heedless of their cries and their sufferings ; but 
a gracious empress, profuse of feasts, with stores of pleasures 
in her capacious lap. And this generous creature was to ex- 
ercise all her power on behalf of Dove ; and pure air, and'^ 
the sweet sunlight, and the sharp hunger of health, were once 
more to make the young girl’s face less shadowy and unreal. 

“ Now for your news. Will,” said the old man, cheerfully. 

“ Nothing much, sir,” said he. “ Only that I have gained 
the appointment, and the company guarantees me one thou- 
sand pounds a year for three years. It never rains but it pours, 
you see ; and if Heaven would only send one more good — ” 

“ My poor girl’s health,” said the old man ; and he would 
have given up all his money, and been glad to suffer far great- 
er privations than he had done for the rest of his life, only to 
secure that one supreme blessing. 

When they returned to the house, Mrs. Anerley came to 
say that Dove wanted to see Will, alone. He went into the 
room, and stooped over her and kissed her forehead and took 
her hand. She looked very pleased and happy. 

Papa' won’t be vexed any more. He has got plenty of 
money, has he not ” she said. 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


“ Yes ; but that money is for them. Our money, Dove, 
must come from me ; and I have got it — I have got the ap- 
pointment — and so hurry, hurry fast and get well ; and then, 
hey ! for a carriage, and cream-white horses, and jingling bells 
to take my Dove to church.” 

She pressed his hand slightly; and her eyes were wistful 
and absent. The beautiful land lay along the horizon-, and 
she strained her vision to see it, and the sight of it — for it was 
so very beautiful — made her sad. 

Come close down. Will, and let me whisper to you. I 
have taken a fancy into my head lately. I never spoke of it, 
for I knew neither you nor papa had money ; but now it is 
different. You said we were to be married.” 

“ Why talk of our ‘ maghiage ’ in that melancholy way, you 
provoking mouse ? ” 

“ Don’t laugh at me. Will ! What I have been thinking is 
this : that I should like to know that I could be married to 
you at any time without having to wait until I was better — 
which might be for such a long, long time ; and I should like 
to know that at any moment I could say to you, ‘Will, make 
me your wife now,’ and you could come into the room, and all 
the people would know that I was your wife.” 

There are ghastly dreams in which the sleeper, gazing on 
a broad and sunny landscape, suddenly becomes conscious 
of a cold and terrible pressure, and, lifting up his eyes, sees 
a broad cloth, white and black like a funeral-pall, descending 
slowly from the sky, and shutting out the glad sunlight, and 
gliding down upon the earth. All living things fly from it ; 
if they remain, they grow fixed and immovable, and their eyes 
become glazed as the eyes of death. 

As terrible as such a dream was the vague, scarce ly-to-b e- 
imagined suggestion which these patient, simple words of 
Dove bore with them ; and Will, horror-struck by the picture 
on which her absent eyes seemed now to be gazing (with its 
dreadful hint about the people standing around), demanded 
why she should ask this thing, or why she troubled her mind 
with it. 

“ My dearest,” she said, with a faint smile stealing across 
the childlike face, “it does not vex me. It pleases me. 
There is nothing dreadful about the idea to you, is there ? I 
cannot go with you to church to be married. When you talk 
of a carriage, and white horses, and bells, it seems to me to 
be so far off — so very, Yery far away — that it is of no use, and 
it makes me miserable. But now, if we were married hdre. 


“ THE COULINr 285 

how I should like to hear you call me your wife, as you went 
about the room ! ” 

“ And so you shall, my pet, whenever you please. But for 
you to turn such a dreadful heretic. Dove, and imagine that 
a marriage outside a church is a marriage at all ! Why, even 
a dispensation from the Archbishop of Canterbury seems sac- 
rilegious where there are no bride-cake, and old slippers, and 
a lot of carriages.” 

“ Now you’re becoming kind again, Will. And you’ll do 
as I ask without bothering me about reasons ? What I 
should like, you know, would be the power of getting married 
when I wanted — if I could have the dispensation, as you say, 
all ready, and just at any moment I might terrify you by cry- 
ing out, ‘ Will, come and marry me 1 ’ 1 might be merciful, 

too, you know. Will ; and perhaps let you off, if you were very 
good and attentive. I’d tell you some day to go to the 
drawer and take out the paper and burn it. It would be like 
giving a, slave his freedom.” 

“ You will be such a dreadful tyrant when you are married, 
Dove, that I shudder to think of what you’ll do to me.” 

“ I think I should have been very kind to you. Will,” said 
the girl, suddenly bursting into tears, and turning away her 
face from him. 

Next morning Dove was a great deal better, everybody 
thought. Even the doctor spoke cheerfully, and the whole 
house was radiant. A thaw had set in ; the air was foggy, 
and damp, and close ; and the streets were in that condition 
which melted snow and drizzling rain generally produce in 
London, but inside the house there was sunlight enough for 
all concerned. And when, on the following morning, the 
weather cleared, and the sun painted bars of yellow on the 
curtains of the windows, it seemed as if the old sad, anxious 
time were past, and the dawn of a new and happy life had 
broken over them. 

Nevertheless, Dove did not give up her idea of the spe- 
cial license and the private marriage. Rather she lay and 
brooded over it ; and sometimes her face was moved with a 
happy delight which those around her could not well under- 
stand. Indeed, her heart was so bent upon it, that they all 
agreed to acquiesce in her wishes, and the necessary steps 
were taken to secure the legalization of the ceremony. The 
covert opposition which the proposal had met was surely not 
due to any opposition to the marriage on the part of any one 
concerned, but to another and vaguer feeling, which no one 
of them dared to reveal to the other. 


286 


IN SILK A TTIRE. 


Said Dove to him suddenly this morning, 

“Is Miss Urunel in town, Will ? ” 

“ I don’t know, Dove.” 

“ It is such a long time since she came to see me ! I won- 
der if it was because you treated her so coldly the last time 
she was here.” 

“ I ? ” 

“ You did not speak to her as you ought to have done. 
Yon kept near me, and kept speaking to me, as if you imag- 
ined I was afraid she would take you away from me again. 

I know you did it to please me ; but I could see something in 
her face, Will, that seemed to say that I needn’t be afraid, 
and that she v/ouldn’t come again. I should be sorry for 
that. Will you go and ask her to come again .? ” 

“ Certainly, if you wish it.” 

“ And you will sneak to her just as you speak to me. I 
can’t be jealous, Will — of her, because she did not try to take 
you from me.” 

“I will go if you like. Dove,” said Will; “ butconsider- 
ing— ” 

“ I have considered ” (with petulant haste). “ I have 
nothing to do all day but lie and consider ; and how many 
things I have considered within this day or two ! I have al- 
tered my mind completely about the marriage. I won’t have 
you marry me. Will — ” 

“ But all the forms have been gone through — ” 

She lay silent and meditative for some time, and then she 
said, 

“ I am sorry to have given you so much trouble ; but I 
should like to alter all my plans. You know the betrothals they 
have in French stories and in the operas : I should like to 
have a betrothal. Will, and all you will have to get forme is a 
big sheet of paper and a marriage ring.” 

How eagerly he accepted the offer! This pretty notion of 
hers, which was obviously only meant to please a passing 
whim, was so much more grateful to him than the marriage 
proposal, with its black background. 

“We will have it at once. Dove ; and I think you are so 
well that you might drink a little Champagne with us to grace 
the ceremony. Then I shall be able to call you my wife all 
the same, and you shall wear the wedding-ring ; and then, 
you know, we can have the white horses and the carriages 
afterward. But I am afraid the betrothal contract will bffljjfc 
frightfully inaccurate ; I don’t know the terms — ” 


“ THE COULINr 287 

Gel a sheet of paper, Will, and I will tell you what to 
write down.” 

He got the paper, and, at her dictation, wrote down the 
following words : 

“ We two, loving each other very dearly, write our names 
underneath in token that we have become husband and wife, 
and as a pledge of constant love.” 

She smiled faintly when he placed the writing before her, 
and then she leaned back on the pillow with a satisfied air. 
Mrs. Anerley now came into the room, and Will, obeying 
some further commands, went off to see whether Annie Bru- 
nei was yet in her old lodgings, and also to purchase a wed- 
ding-ring for the ceremony on which Dove had set her heart. 

Miss Bruners landlady told Will that her lady lodger would 
probably return the next day, with which piece of informa- 
tion he returned. He also showed Dove the wedding-ring ; 
and she placed it on her finger, and kept it there. 

But that evenmg the insidious disease from which the girl 
was suffering withdrew the treacherous semblance of health 
it had lent to her burning cheeks, and it was obvious that 
she had grown rapidly worse. They all saw it, and would 
not confess it to each other. They only noticed that Mrs. 
Anerley did not stir now from Dove’s bedside. 

Mr. Anerley spent nearly the whole of that night in walk- 
ing up and down his own room ; from time to time stealthily 
receiving messages, for they would not admit to Dove that 
they felt much anxiety about her. The man seemed to have 
grown grayer ; or perhaps it was the utter wretchedness of 
his face that made him look so old and careworn. Will sat 
in an easy-chair, gloomily staring into the fire. The appoint- 
ment he had so eagerly sought and so joyfully gained, fancy- 
ing it was to bring them all back again into pleasant circum- 
stances, was only a bitter mockery now. He could not bear 
to think of it. He could bear to think of nothing when this 
terrible issue was at stake in the next room. 

In the morning, when the first gray light was sufficiently 
clear to show Dove’s face to the nurse and Mrs. Anerley, 
the latter looked at the girl for a long time. 

“ Why do you look at me so, mamma ? ” she asked. 

She could not answer. She went into the next room, and 
crying, “ Oh, Hubert, Hubert, go and look at my Dove’s 
face ! ” burst into tears on her husband’s bosom. And yet 
there was nothing remarkable about the girl’s face — except, 
perhaps, to one who had watched it critically all the night 


288 


JN SILK A TTIRE, 


through, and was alarmed by the transition from the ruddy 
lamplight to the gray and haggard tone of the morning. 

The doctor came, and went away again, saying nothing. 
Towards the forenoon, Dove said to Will, 

“I want to hear ‘The Coulin ’ — ” 

“Not ‘The Coulin/ Dove,’’ he jdeadc':]. 

“When Miss Brunei comes, perhaps she will play it. The 
music is simple. Put it on the piano — and — and send for 
her.” 

He himself went for her — out into the bright light of that 
fresh spring morning. Annie Brunei, when he found her, 
was in her poor lodgings, dressed in the simple black dress 
in which he had last seen her. 

“ I was going up to see Dove,” she said, “when I heard 
she had sent for me. But — is there anything the matter ? ” 
“ Dove is ill,” he said, abruptly. “ I — I cannot tell you. 
But she wants you to come and — play a piece of music for 
her.” 

Neither of them spoke a word all the way to the house. 
When Annie Brunei, pale and calm and beautiful, went to 
the girl, and took up her white hand, and kissed her, there 
was a pleased smile on Dove’s face. 

“ Why didn’t they tell me you were ill ? ” she said. “ I 
should have been here before. ” 

‘‘ I J:now that,” said Dove in a whisper, “for — for you have 
always' beeiii kind to me. " YoV have come in time — but I 
am too weak to tell you — ask Will — the betrothal — ” 

The brief explanation was speedily given ; and then Dove 
said, 

“ I am very tired. Will you go into the next room and 
play me ‘ The Coulin ? ’ And when you come back — ” 

She went to Dove’s piano, and found there the air which 
she knew so well. And as she played it, so softly that it 
sounded like some bitter sad leave-taking that die sea had 
heard and murmured over, Dove lay and listened with a 
strange look on- her face. Will’s hand was in hers, and she 
drew him down to her, and whispered, 

“ I could have been so happy with you, Will : so very happy, 
I think. But I had no right to be. Where is the — the 
paper — I was to sign ? ” 

He brought it, and put it on the table beside her bedside ; 
and Miss Brunei came into the room, and went over to Dove. 

“That is the paper I must sign,” said the girl. “ But how 
can I ? Will you — will you do it for me ? But come closer 
to me and listen, for I have — a secret — ” 


THE coulin: 


289 


When Annie Brunei bent down her head to listen, Dove 
drew the wedding-ring off her finger, kissed it tenderly, and 
put it on her companion’s hand ; and then she said, looking 
Annie in the face with a faint smile in the peaceful violet 
eyes, “ It is your own name you must sign.” 

At the same moment she lay back exhausted, and to Mr. 
Anerley, who had hurriedly stepped foward to take her hand, 
she sighed wearily, “ I am so tired ! I shall rest.” And pres- 
ently a beautiful, happy light stole over the girlish features ; 
and he heard her murmur indistinctly — as if the words were 
addressed to him from the other world — the old familiar line, 
“ Meghily^ meghily shall I sleep now.” 

They were the last W0fds that Dove uttered, and the cause 
of the last smile that was on her sweet face. 


THE END. 






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19 West Nth Street, New York. 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY, 

C-A-TXXjOC3-'a'E. 


j 85. Shandon Bells, by William Black. aO 

I 86. Monica, by The Duchess 10 

87. Heart and Science, by Wilkie Col- . 

lins 20 

j 88. The Golden Calf, by Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

89. The Dean’s Daughter, by Mrs. 

Gore 20 

90. Mrs. Geoffrey, by The Duchess.. 20 

91. Pickwick Papers, Part 1 20 

Pickwick Papers, Part II 20 

92. Airy Fa ry Lilian, by The Duchess. 20 
9,3. McLeod of Dare, by Wm. Black. 20 

94. Tempest Tossed, by Tilton, P’tl.20 
Tempest Tossed, by Tilton, P’tII.20 

95. Letters from High Latitudes, by 


Lord Duffer in 20 

96. Gideon Fleyce, by Henry W. Lucy. 20 

97. India and Ceylon, by B. Hmckle . . 20, 

98. The Gypsy Queen, by Hugh De 

Normand 20 

99. The Admiral’s 5Wrd, by Mrs. 

Alexander 20 

100. Nimport, by E. L. Bynner, P’t I. .15 
Nimport, byE. L, Bynner, P’t II. . 15 

101. Harry Holbrooke, by Sir H. Ran- 

dall Roberts 20 

102. Tritons, by E. Lasseter Bynner, 

Parti 15 

Tritons, by E. Lasseter Bynner, 

Part II. ‘ 15 

103 Let Nothing You Dismay, by Wal- 
ter Besant 10 

104. Lady Audley’s Secret, by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

105. Woman’s Place To-Day, by Mri. 

Lillie Devereux Blake 20 

I 106. Dunallan, by Kennedy, Part I... 15 
Dunallan, by Kennedy, Part II.. 15 
f 107. Housekeeping and Home-Making, 

by Marion Harland 15 

108. No New Thing, by W. E. Norris.. 20 

109. The SpoopendykePapers, by Stan- 

ley Huntley 20 

110. False Hopes, by Goldwin Smith. .15 

111. Labor and Capital, by Edward 

Kellogg 20 

112. Wanda, by Ouida, Part 1 15 

Wanda, by Ouida, Part II 15 

113. More Words About the Bible, by 

liev, Jas. S. Bush... 20 

114. Monsieur Lecoq, byGaboriau.P’t I 20 
MonsieurLecoq, by Gaboriau, P’t 11.20 

115. An Outline of Irish History, by 

Justin H. McCarthy 10 

116. The Lerouge Case, by Gaboriau. .20 

117. Paul Clifford, by Lord Lytton...20 

118. A New Lease of Life, by About.. 20 

119. Bourbon Lillies 20 

120. Other Peoples’ Money, by Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

121. TheLadyof Lyons, by Lord Lyttou.lO 

122. Ameline de Bourg 15 


12.3. A Sea Queen, by W. Clark Russell. 20 

124. The Ladies Lindores, by Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

125. Haunted Hearts, by J. P. Simpson. 10 

126. Loys, Lord Beresford, by The 

Duchess 20 

127. Under Two Flag.s, by Ouida, P’t 1.20 
Under Two Flags, by Ouida, P’t 11.20 

128. Money, by Lord Lytton 10 

129. In Peril of His Life, by Gaboriau. 20 

130. India, by Max Muller.; 20 

131. Jets and Flashes 20 

132. Moonshine and Marguerites, by 

The Ducheis. 10 

1.33. Mr. Scarborough’s Family, by 

Anthony Trollope, Part 1 15 

Mr. Scarborough’s Family, by 
Anthony Trollope, Part II 16 

1.34. Arden, by A. Mary F. Roberts... 15 

135. The Tower of Percemont, by 

George Sand 20 

136. Yolande, by Wm. Black 20 

137. Cruel London, by Joseph Hatton. 20 


138. The Gilded Clique, by Gaboriau. ..20 

139. Pike County Polks, by E. H. Mott.. 20 

140. Cricket on the Hearth, byDickens.lO 

141. Henry Esmond, by Thackeray 20 

142. Strange Adventures of a Phaeton, 

by Wm. Black 20 

14 . 3 . Denis Duval, by W. M. Thackeray. 10 

144. Old Curiosity Shop, by Charles 

Dickens, Part 1 15 

Old Curiosity Shop, by Charles i 
Dickens. Part II 15 i 

145. Ivanhoe, by Scott, Part 1 15 ; 

Ivanhoe, by Scott, Part II 15 

146. White Wings, by Wrn. Black 20 

147. The Sketch Book, by Irving 30 

148. Catherine, by W. M. Thackeray 10 

149. Janet’s Repentance, by Eliot 10 

150. Barnaby Rudge, Dickens Part 1.15 
Barnaby Rudge. Dickeas P’t 11.15 

151. Felix Holt, by George Eliot . .20 

152. Richelieu, by Lord Lytton 10 

153. Sunrise, by Wm. Black Part I.. .15 
Sunrise, by Wm. Black Part II.. 15 

1.54. Tour of the World in 80 Bays 20 

1.55. Mystery of Orcival, Gaboriau ...20 

156. Level, The Widower, by W. M. 

Thackeray 10 

157. The Romantic Adventures of a 

Milkmaid, by Thos. Hardy 10 

1.58. David Oopperfield. Parti 20 

David Oopperfield, Part 11 20 

159. Charlotte Temple, 10 

160. Rienzi, by Lord Lytton, Part 1 . 10 

Rieuzi, by Lord Lytton, Part II .10 

161. Promise of Marriage, Gaboriau. .25 

162. Faith and Unfaith, The Duchess 15 
lf33. The Happy Man, Samuel Lover. 10 

164. Barry Lyndon, by Thackeray. . .20 

165. Eyre’s Acquittal, Helen Mathers 10 

166. 20.000 Leagues under the Sea, by 

Verne ,.2Q._ 


BEAUT AlTD 1TEE7E POOD. 



Vitalized Phos-phites, 

COMPOSED OE THE NERVE-GIVING PRINCIPLES OP 
THE OX-BRAIN AND WHEAT-GERM. 

It restores the energy lost by Nervousness or Indigestion; relieves 
Lassitude and Neuralgia; refreshes the nerves tired by worry, excite- 
ment, or excessive brain fatigue; strengthens a failing memory, and 
gives renewed vigor in all diseases of Nervous Exhaustion or Debility. 
It is the only PREVENTIVE FOR CONSUMPTION. 

It aids wonderfvlly in the mental and bodily grotcth of infants and 
children. Under its use the teeth come easier, the bones grow better, the sMn 
plumper and smoother; the brain acquires more readily, and rests and sleeps 
more sweetly. An ill-fed brain learns no lessons, and is excusable if peenaish. 
It gi'oes a happier and better childhood. 

It is with the utmost confidence that I recommend this excellent pre- 
paration for the relief of indigestion and for general debility; nay, I do more 
than recommend, 1 really urge all invalids to put it to the test, for in sev- 
eral cases personally known to me signal benefits have been derived from 
its use, 1 have recently watched its effects on a young friend who has 
suffered from indigestion all her life. After taking the Vitai>ized Phos- 
pniTES for a fortnight she said to me; ‘ I feel another person; it is a pleas- 
ure to live.’ Many hard-working men and women — especially those engaged 
in brain work — would be saved from the fatal resort to chloral and other 
destructive stimulants, if they would have recourse to a remedy so simple 
and so efficacious. ” 

Emily Faithfull. 

Physicians have prescribed oyer 600,000 Packages because they 

KNOW ITS Composition, that it is not a secret remedy, and 

THAT THE FORMULA IS PRINTED ON EVERY LABEL 
For Sale by Drusrsrlsta or by IMCall, ^ti. 

ISm CROSBY CO., 661 and 666 Sixth. Avenue, New York. 







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